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Our Plan e 

The Lake School'of Poetry 5 

Father Yenni . . I . . 7 

John Milton : 8 

The Wild Jessamine 10 

Paradise Lost— Its Style 10 

The Martyr Winona 12 

All the Way to 'Ellerman*s 14 

Saint Catharine 15 

Mobile of the Future ' 17 

The Possessed Cat 21 

College Items . . 22 

Obituary 24 

Only the Dummy that has Jumped the Track ...... . 24 

Memento Domini 25 

A Tale : .... 26 

Friendship 26 

The College Lake 27 

Spartacus ad Gladiatores 2/ 

War and Peace 28 

Daniel Webster 29 

Our College Team (a Song) 31 

My College Home / 32 

Spring Hill College 33 

Looking Glasses 34 

Rev. W. R. Miles, S.J . . 36 

A Commencement Day in Spring Hill Forty Years Ago 37 

New Year's Eve 38 

Edmund Burke 39 

Burke as a Writer 40 

Burke as a Statesman 42 

Burke as an Orator 43 

The Rhetoricians' Tribute to the Album .... 45 

The Necessity of Having an Ideal 55 

Xaverius ad Indiam Proficiscens 56 

A Glance Through the Old Catalogues 57 

The Retreat of the Ten Thousand sfi 

Joan of Arc 60 

A Visit to the Apaches 61 

ivichard Dalton Williams . .- 63 

Semi-Annual Entertainment ... - - - 65 

Mardi Gras at the College • 65 

Shrove-Tide Entertainment 67 

Brother Adrian Lagger, S. J 68 

The Cathedral of Mobile - . 69 

Ad S. Joseph 70 


7'0 rara students of spring hill college: 

Dear Fellow Students:— As all our ambition tends only to win your good wishe?, 
we feel happy in being permitted to dedicate to you the following few extracts from 
our College Album. 

Though young, we are not, however, vain enough to imagine that our compositions 
merit the attention or applause of the literary world. We, ourselves, are prefectly aware 
that many of our little, youthful essays are deficient in fire, strength, elegance, and in 
almost all the striking characteristics, which distinguish the classical scholar from the 
pedant or scribbler. 

We hope that this open confession of our own insufficiency, shall silence the censures 
of profound and learned critics, whilst we have no doubt but that the man of taste and 
letters will encourage us in our youthful attempts, even though he laugh in secret at our 
faults and blunders. 

Be pleased then, fellow students, to accept our gratitude for the lively attention and 
warm interest you have already manifested for our Album. 


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in 2012 with funding from 

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New Series. 

MARCH, 1S91. 

Vol. I. No. r. 


E are aware that there is no ex- 
cellence without labor; and that 
the ablest teachers can only di- 
rect us in our studies. They are unable 
to infuse knowledge into our minds, if 
we, on our part, do not co-operate with 
them towards our moral and intellec- 
tual education. Yes! This precious 
blessing must emphatically be the re- 
ward of our own exertions : 

" Nihil sine magno 
Vita labor e dedit mortalibus. ' ' 

Fully convinced of this truth, we, of 
the higher classes, have, therefore, or- 
ganized a literary club, for the special 
purpose of improving, by private dili- 
gence in the art of writing. 

The better to attain our end, we have 
decided on the following resolutions : 

1. Our paper shall be called the 
"College Album. ,, 

2. The College Album shall be a 
written paper, appearing once a month. 

3. Extracts collected from the 

monthly issues shall be printed, from 
time to time, in pamphlet form. 

4. The paper shall be edited by a 
board of active members from the 
higher classes, under the control of a 
President, Secretary and Business 

5. No individual member is obliged 
to contribute, and no student is pre- 
vented from presenting articles for in- 
sertion on the same conditions as the 
active members. 

6. Contributors are left at liberty to 
sign their compositions. 

7. All articles presented for inser- 
tion shall be dropped into the letter- 
box and examined by the members of 
the Club, either collectively or individu- 
ally, and approved of by the officers. 

All students are invited and many 
are expected to swell the columns of 
the Album, and we sincerely hope 
that this literary society will contribute 
to the advancement of the students 
and to the honor and reputation of our 
Alma Mater. Secretary. 


0/^ o HE spirit of socialism that had 

been growing in 
nearly a hundred 

Europe for 



into active life on the rise of the 
French Revolution, which 
spread far and wide the doc- 
trines of the liberty, equality and the 
natural rights of man. France threw 
them abruptly into popular and politi- 
cal form. Immediately they became 
living powers in the world, and it is 
around the excitement they kindled in 
England that the work of the poets 

from 1790 to 1S30 can be best grouped. 

It is plain that these doctrines, which 
in their birth shook governments, reli- 
gion and society as if they were reeds 
in a tempest, .must enter into and move 
the poet more than any other man of 
his time ; and also arouse in him a 
taste for a new order of verse. This 
setting up of new ideas as the basis of 
poetry was begun by what we call the 
Lake School. It is of this school that 
we propose to give you a brief account. 

It was in the little village of Gras- 



mere that Wordsworth and Coleridge 
first met, and there also they laid the 
foundation of that famous school al- 
ready mentioned. 

They were both fired with the same 
poetical ardor, possessed the same 
ideas, and had each published a little 
volume of poems. It was, therefore, 
natural that they should become warm 
friends. Their constant interchange of 
thoughts, their long rambles together 
among the lanes and woods of rural 
England, led to the publication of a 
little book of poems, with a preface 
setting forth their theories about poetry, 
which finally gave them and those who 
agreed with them the name of the Lake 
School. This name they received from 
the beautiful lake region of Cumber- 
land, where Wordsworth and Southey 
afterwards went to reside. The Lyri- 
cal Ballads, their first united attempt, 
were published in 1798. It was, how- 
ever, so severely criticised that for 
nearly twenty years public opinion was 
dead set against them. But neither 
the men nor their work was to be 
crushed, and from year to year it grew 
more and more in favor. 

Having thus given you, in as few 
words as possible, the history of the 
Lake School, we will now attempt to 
say something of the men who founded 
it, and of their poetry. 

Robert Southey was born in Bristol, 
in 1774, and began his poetical career 
in 1794, with the revolutionary poem of 
Wat Tyler, a highly explosive and se- 
ditious production. His second pro- 
duction, Thalaba, a tale of Arabian 
enchantment, was published in 1801. 
It is wild, extravagant, unearthly in its 
subject, and full of supernatural ma- 
chinery. This was followed by Madock 
in 1805, and the Curse of Kehama in 
iS 10. Roderick, the Last of the Goths, 
was published after an interval of four 

Full of Southey's miscellaneous 
learning, they are real poems, and have 
the interest of good narrative and the 
charm of musical meter, but the finer 
spirit of poetry is not in them. Rod- 
erick is the most human of all his 
works, and consequently the most po- 
etical. His Vision of Judgement, 
written on the death of George III., 

and ridiculed by Byron in another 
"Vision," proves him to have become 
a tory of tories. 

At length the strong spirit of Southey 
was bowed by the excess of mental la- 
bor. For three years before his death 
his mind was so far gone that he was 
unable to recognize those who had 
been his companions from youth. He 
died in 1S34 at his home in the Lake 
country. * 

In Samuel Coleridge the world pos- 
sessed a poet who, although he had 
not the activity of Wordsworth and 
Southey, far surpassed them in wild- 
ness of imagination and sublimity of 
thought. He was from youth a pro- 
found thinker, and had early embraced 
the doctrines of the revolution. 

This youthful enthusiasm was, how- 
ever, lessened when, in 1796, he wrote 
the Ode to the Departing Year and the 
Ode to France. He had placed all his 
confidence in France, and very bitter 
was his disappointment when she, 
ceasing to be the champion of freedom, 
attacked Switzerland. 

Soon after this event he wrote the 
Ode to Dejection, which was perme- 
ated not only with the gloom of his 
own wasted life, but also with the sor- 
row of one who had had golden ideals 
and found them turn in his hands to 

Coleridge's poetry is remarkable for 
the perfection of its execution and for 
the exquisite art with which its divine 
spirit is endowed with formal expres- 

The Rime of Ancient Mariner and 
Christabel to which nothing in our lan- 
guage can compare, were written as 
part of the Lyrical Ballads of 1798. 

Kubla Kahn also appeared about 
this time. In all these poems Coleridge 
combines, with unrivalled beauty and 
expressiveness of diction, the most ex- 
quisite melody of verse. It was prob- 
ably only quantity that was wanting to 
make Coleridge the greatest poet of 
his time. All that he did excellently 
might be bound in twenty pages, but 
they should be bound in pages of pure 

Of all the poets surnamed Lake 
Poets, William Wordsworth, a medi- 


tative and descriptive writer, was the 

He was born in 1770, in Cumberland, 
and educated on the banks of the beau- 
tiful river Esthwaite. He loved the 
Lake scenery as a boy, lived among it 
in his manhood, and in 1850 departed 
peacefully and calmly at Rydal Mount, 
close to Lake Rydal. Like Coleridge, 
he threw himself eagerly into the revo- 
lution, joined the popular side, and 
came to Paris shortly after the Septem- 
ber massacre of 1792. Returning to 
England in 1793 he gave to the public 
the result of his observations on the 
continent, under the title of Descriptive 
Sketches in Verse. 

The Lyrical Ballads, written in un- 
ion with Coleridge and intended as an 
experiment on a new system of poetry, 
were published in 1798 The Prelude, 
begun in Germany and finished in 
England, was written in the years 
1S05-6. This was followed, in 18 14, 
by his great epic poem, the Excursion- 
Here at last was a grand epic which 
did not celebrate war nor the deeds of 

Homeric heroes ; which did not dwell 
in realms peopled by imaginary crea- 
tures ; which soared neither to heaven 
nor dived to hell ; but in which the poet 
is led into fields and villages, 
among the humblest abodes of men, 
learning lessons of human brotherhood 
in his course. 

The ode, Intimations of Immortality, 
also written about this time, is in our 
mind, enough for one poet to have 
written. It is, both in matter and form, 
to be ranked with that ode of Dryden's 
which he called the best in the lan- 
guage. In these he has united with 
deep feeling and profound thought, a 
power of observation which makes 
him familiar with all the loveliness and 
wonder of the world within and around 
us, and an imagination capable of in- 
spiring all objects with poetic life. 
Never was the judgment of the critic 
more wholly overturned than in his 
case. He began by being laughed at, 
and lived to see his name set among 
the great English poets. 

George B. Tvvellmeyer. 



'JP WILL not attempt to sketch the 
\W; life of a poet, a statesman, nor 
>*^ one that the world has flattered, 
<&9 honored or caressed. No ! My 
^? theme shall be about one who, 
(3 though a proficient scholar, an 
eminent teacher, was especially an 
humble, pious, unassuming, religious, 
the Reverend Dominic Yenni. 

Father Yenni was born at Dornbirn, 
a market town in the principality of 
Vorarlberg, in Tyrol, on the first of 
January, 18 io, and commenced his 
studies at St. Gallen, in the Swiss can- 
ton of the same name. Here along 
with his other studies he received his 
first lessons on the violin, w r hich in- 
strument in after life gained for him 
the reputation, among those who were 
competent to judge, of an excellent 

In his twenty-first year he determined 
to devote himself to the service of God 
by entering the Society of Jesus, at 
Gratz, in Styria. Thinking, however, 

that he might better procure the glory 
of God in America, he sought and ob- 
tained permission to devote his labors 
and his talents in that part of his Mas- 
ter's vineyard, and so in October, 185 1, 
we find him a voluntary exile, bidding 
adieu to parents, friends and country. 

On arriving in this country he was 
first stationed in Cincinnati, where he 
diligently applied himself to the study 
of the English language. His stay 
here, however, was not of long dura- 
tion, for in July, 1846, the French 
province of Lyons accepted the man- 
agement of Spring Hill College 
from its founder, Bishop Portier, of 
Mobile, Ala. 

Under these circumstances he was 
called to New Orleans in February, 
1847, and was immediately sent to 
Spring Hill, which with a brief inter- 
ruption, was the scene of his labors, 
teaching young boys the fundamental 
principles of the Latin and Greek 
lanofuaofes, until his death. 



The interruption just alluded to, was 
caused by the burning of the College 
on the night of February 5, 1869. 

After this untoward accident he and 
the students were transferred to Grand 
Coteau, La. His stay there was only 
temporary, for Spring Hill was soon 
rebuilt and reopened on the eighth of 
December following, when he returned 
never more to depart from the loved 
spot to which he had become so much 
attached until called to his true home 

He expired on the morning of the 
eighth of July, 1S8S, in the seventy- 
sixth year of his age and the fifty- 
eighth of his religious life, leaving this 
world of toil and care to receive the 
reward of his long and laborious life. 

He is burried in the neat little Col- 
lege cemetery, where repose the re- 
mains of Rev. Father Ladiviere, S. J., 
the priest who bore from Pope Pius 
VI, the bull of excommunication to 
Napoleon Bonaparte. 

Thus departed our teacher of third 
grammar, one whose life seemed to 
glide away like the placid flow of a 
peaceful stream, rather than the uncer- 
tain ebb of mortal existence. Kind 
and just to all alike, he was always 
strict, never severe ; although exceed- 
ingly humble and pious, he was not 
gloomy, for his piety and humility 
seemed to be of that exalted, lively 
kind that surmounts ordinary difficul- 
ties with a joyful heart ; no one enjoyed 

an innocent jest better than he, nor in 
turn was anyone free from his little 
amusing tricks. 

And though he made us walk the 
"chalk-line," if I am allowed the com- 
mon expression, yet none of his old 
pupils will ever think of him but with 
kindness, gratitude and respect. 

Nor will that tall form, as erect and 
precise in its every movement as that 
of a soldier, ever fade from the memory 
of his students. Nor will their imag- 
inations fail to picture the massive 
head covered with white hair and gen- 
tly inclined forward ; his dark features, 
the high, broad and wrinkled forehead, 
the furrowed cheeks, the strong, square 
jaws, bespeaking the firmness of his 
character; the eyes beaming brightly 
behind a pair of old-fashioned specta- 
cles, that rest on a well-shaped nose, 
the placid smile playing upon his thin 
lips. Such is the modest and saintly 
appearance that is re-awakened in our 
mind at the mere mention of his name. 
We can almost see him again as he 
takes his daily stroll on the gallery, or 
sits on the church steps devoutly recit- 
ing his beads or reading his office un- 
der the clear blue sky of our genial 

His name shall be cherished and re- 
vered in Spring Hill College, as long 
as anyone will remain who knew his 
modesty, zeal and devotion, and as 
long as the Greek and Latin languages 
will be taught in this hallowed institu- 
tion. Karl Heusnhr. 


IjpOHN MILTON, the greatest of 
nZjm\ our epic poets, was born in 
^^ Bread street, London, on the 9th 
of December, 1608. His father 
very early destined him to the 
study of literature; and, so ea- 
gerly did he engage in it, that he 
seldom quitted his studies before mid- 
night. This excessive application in- 
jured his eyes and laid the foundation 
of his subsequent blindness ; but noth- 
ing could restrain his ardor for learn- 
ing, and his father, correctly appreciat- 
ing these indications of future eminence, 
spared no expense in providing for his 

After spending some time under the 
direction of the Rev. Thomas Young, 
and at St. Paul's school, he was entered 
as a pensioner of Christ's College, 
Cambridge, on the 12th of February, 
1624, being already, although only in 
his seventeenth year, an accomplished 
scholar. During his residence there 
he composed most of his Latin poems. 

Milton passed seven years at Cam- 
bridge, with the exception of a brief 
term of absence, and took his degree 
of B. A. in 1628, and M. A. in 1632. 

On leaving college Milton repaired 
to his father's residence in Buckinham- 
shire, where he spent five years in the 



most diligent study of the Greek and 
Latin classics, mathematics and science. 
During this interval he produced his 
Comus and Lycidas. It is also thought 
that he wrote the Arcades, L' Allegro 
and II Penseroso about the same time. 
These were preludes or exercises, 
towards the great poetical work which 
it was the mission of his life to pro- 

In 1638, Milton left England for the 
purpose of completing his education 
by foreign travel. He visited many 
places on the continent, and was met 
everywhere with the most enthusiastic 
receptions. The state of his native 
country, however, torn by dissensions 
and manifestly on the eve of a great 
convulsion appealed too strongly to 
his patriotic ardor to suffer him to pro- 
tract his stay abroad, and returning, he 
reached England after an absence of 
fifteen months. 

The next ten years of Milton's life 
were engaged in teaching and in writ- 
ing his prose works. His ideas on 
teaching are to be found in his "Treat- 
ise on Education." 

The most eloquent of Milton's prose 
writings is his Areopagitica, a speech 
for the liberty of unlicensed printing. 

In 1649 Milton was apponted Latin 
Secretary to the Council of State, at 
whose instigation he undertook to 
counteract by his "Iconoclastes" the 
apprehended effects of the "Icon Basi- 
like," which was supposed to have been 
written by Charles I. 

In 165 1 Milton produced his cele- 
brated "Defence of the People of Eng- 
land," which made its author the 
subject of conversation both at home 
and abroad. 

His total loss of sight, of which he 
had been forewarned by his physicians, 
took place in 1652. 

In 1660 the Reformation took place, 
and Milton was at length free, in his 
fifty-third year, to carry out his long- 
cherished scheme of writing a great 

epic poem. He selected for his sub- 
ject "Paradise Lost," of which he says 
he had been "long choosing and late 
in beginning." 

In 1667 the first edition of "Paradise 
Lost" was given to the world. If any- 
thing could heighten the surpassing 
merits of this noblest achievement of 
poetry, it would be the circumstances 
under which its execution was com- 
pleted : its author, blind, reduced in 
fortune, and encompassed by danger 
as well as by darkness. 

In 1671 Milton published his "Para- 
dise Regained" and "Samson Ago- 

A few subsequent publications in 
English and Latin prose closed his lit- 
erary labors. An attack of the gout, a 
disease which for many years had af- 
flicted him, terminated his life on the 
8th of November, 1674. His body was 
deposited in the upper part of the 
chancel of St. Giles, Cripplegate, 
where a marble bust by Bacon was 
afterwards erected to his memory. 

The person of Milton was of the 
middle height, compact and muscular. 
"His harmonical and ingenious soul," 
says Aubrey, "dwelt in a beautiful and 
well proportioned body." He was 
handsome, with a delicate complexion 
and clear blue eyes, which retained, 
even after the total extinction of vision, 
a peculiar vividness. His voice was 
sweet and harmonious, and his ear ex- 
cellent. In his habits he was remark- 
ably frugal and regular. His manners 
were affable and graceful ; his temper 
grave without melancholy, and his af- 
fections ardent. 

Such was John Milton, in whom were 
combined all the rarer qualities w T hich 
dignify our nature, and of whom it 
constitutes the noblest panegyric, that 
his works are not less the just expres- 
sion of his character than the monu- 
ments of his genius. 

"Jos. O'Brien. 



Hail, Jessamine, hail golden bell, 

Sweet harbinger of Spring, 
Dark clouds and gloom dost drive afar, 

Bright joys with thee dost bring. 

Back, Tyrant, to thy wintry realms, 

Where weeps the dreary day, 
Where sighs the weary night, avaunt ! 

Thy power has lost its sway. 

Hence, with thy cruel howling blasts, 

Hence, with thy mantle sere 
That wrapped the land in silent gloom, 

Thy frown no more we fear. 

Welcome, bland spring, thou joyful prince! 

For thee bright days now dawn, 
For thee soft nights now gleam with stars, — 

The Jessamine hath blown. 

Babble, ye rills! Sing, merry birds! 

Play on, ye breezes mild! 
And don your emerald robes, ye hills, — 

The Jessamine hath smiled. 

Should sorrow's winter freeze thy heart, 

Yield not to grief a prey, 
A Jessamine — some Heaven-sent joy — 

Will drive the gloom away. 

Feb. 15, '91. 

*The yellow Jessamine, Gelsemium Sempervirens, grows in great profusion, festooning the trees and 
shrubs, and during the early spring filling the woods with its fragrance, similar to that of the Jesminum 


C^T^HE only epic of our language the future world, and the redemption 

jHfr) whose story is how satan was of man by our Lord, and finally the 

^ allowed to plot against the expulsion from Paradise. 

happiness of man, and how The beauty of this noble poem is 
Adam and Eve fell through like that of a stately temple, which, 
°" his designs, opens with the vast in conception, is involved in de- 
awaking of the rebel angels in hell tail. With . this general view of the 
after their fall from Heaven. Here whole of Paradise Lost, we are now 
their chiefs hold a consultation how prepared to descend more intoparticu- 
best to carry on the war with God. lars about the first book, since it is of 
Then satan resolves to go forth and this one, especially, we are to treat, 
tempt newly created man to fall. He We shall finish with a few observations 
takes his flight to earth and finds Eden. on the style of the poem. 
Eden is then described, and Adam and 

Eve in their innocence. The next four THE FIRST BOOK# 

books contain the Archangel, Ra- The subject is " of man's first diso- 

phaePs story of the war in Heaven, bedience/' In asking how Paradise 

the fall of satan, and the creation of was lost, Milton introduces the author 

the world. The last four describe of its loss, and the poem opens with 

the temptation and fall of man, the the description of satan in hell, awak- 

vision shown by Michael to Adam of ing to the consciousness of his ruin. 




He gathers his whole host together, 
resolves on war by guile, since his 
force is unavailing, and tells of a new 
world on which they may seize, and 
the fame of which he had heard in 
Heaven. Satan then calls a council in 
Pandemonium, " suddenly built out of 
the deep," where they may resolve 
how to hurt God by introducing sin 
and evil into the newly created earth. 

Thus the main subject is impressed 
upon our minds. The interest never 
fails, but step by step, like the growth 
of a thunder storm, it slowly rises to 
the point where satan reaches the 
heighth of his thought, sorrow and in- 

At first hell is silent — then the fallen 
archangel awakes and looks around 
him in sorrow. He calls Beelzebub, 
and together they make their way to 
the burning shore, and there the two 
^figures stand alone ; the rest of the 
fallen angels lie tossing and astonished 
on the fiery lake. The interest deep- 
ens and the picture fills, as the whole 
host hover under the cope of hell and 
light upon the plain. All hell is now 
awake, and the legions in fixed array 
await the commands of their chief. 
One would think the imagination could 
be wrought to no higher pitch when 
this point is reached, but at this very 
moment Milton displays his real genius, 
and rising majestically, creates the 
noblest speech and picture in the book. 
Pride, sorrow, splendor of imagery, 
and resolution are mingled into the 
image of satan and his words ; he 
reached the climax, when at his word, 
" Millions of flaming swords outflew." 

The episodes that occur in the 
course of this book are beautiful and 
well calculated to relieve the mind in 
the midst of so much that is grand and 
appalling. That one in which the 
leaders of the host are described, as 
they will be afterwards worshiped on 
earth, occurriner before the orreat con- 

course of demons has assembled, 
serves to lower the pitch of excitement 
and thus prepare us better for what is 
to come. The building of Pandemo- 
nium relieves, yet serves to fill the 
lurid picture and animate and lighten 
hell itself. Towards the end of the 
book the tale becomes less and less 
sombre, and before long is made beau- 
tiful. Architecture is introduced with 
the recollected pleasure of one who 
has seen the Pantheon. Classic fable 
adds itself to art, and two similes, one 
of bees busy in a dewy land, and of 
fairy sport in the forest, bring us com- 
pletely out of the murky air of hell. 


" In reading Paradise Lost,'* says 
Lowell, " one has a feeling of spa- 
ciousness such as no other poet gives." 
" Its style," says Meiklejohn, " is the 
noblest work in the English language ; 
the music of the rythm is lofty, in- 
volved, sustained and sublime." 

It is always great, so great, in fact, 
that when once we have come to know 
and love it, it so captivates us that we 
can with difficulty bring our minds to 
assimilate the thought with which 
every line is laden. We find ourselves 
sometimes admiring things in them- 
selves not worthy of admiration, be- 
cause the robe they wear is so royal. 
No style is so spacious and majestic. 
It is like the fig-tree he describes, 
which : 

" In Malabar or Decan spreads her arms, 
Branching so broad and long, that in the ground 
The bending twigs take root, and daughters grow 
About the mother tree, a pillared shade 
High overarched, and echoing walks between." 

Fullness of sound, compactness of 
finish, fitness of words to things, suita- 
bleness of pauses, majesty of thought 
and solemn beauty, belong one and all 
to the style. It is the easy and neces- 
sary expression of the very character 
and nature of the man. It reveals 
Milton himself, as much and sometimes 
more than his thought. 

T. Cassidy. 




TAn Indian Tale.] 

Come and listen to the story 
Of the Christian Indian maiden, 
Of the martyred Indian virgin, 
Of the beautiful Winona. 

In the lowland of Louisana, 
Near the mighty, lengthy river, 
Near the muddy Mississippi, 
Where the agile, youthful warriors, 
Painted with their Indian war-paint, 
With their crests of eagle feathers, 
In canoes with wooden paddles 
Glided over its yellow waters, 
Shooting like the winged arrow 
O'er the river's saffron waters, 
There was seen an Indian village. 
In the village dwelt a maiden 
Who was called by all, Winona. 

It was when the conquering Spaniards 

Held this land with hand of iron, 

Ruled this fertile, flow'ry southland, 

That Winona saw the daylight. 

Half an Indian, half a Spaniard — 

A Hidalgo was her father, 

Who had loved an Indian maiden, 

Who had died in bloody battle, 

With his harness on his shoulders. 

Beautiful was this Winona, 

All the youthful warriors sought her; 

For her did they kill the wild deer, 

To her brought they hides of bison, • 

And a hundred scalps they promised, 

If her hand she would but give them. 

Whilst the old men smoked their peace-pipes, 
And papooses women carried, 
Once our fair Winona started, 
Started through the matted forest, 
Where the oaks with moss were bearded, 
Where the tow'ring pines were swaying, 
Where on trees danced floral garlands, 
Shaken by the mystic zephyrs, 
Where the sweet magnolias yielded 
Perfumes from their snow-white flowers; 
There she met a pale-faced stranger, 
Clad in flowing, sable cassock; — 
'Twas a Spanish missionary, 
'Twas an aged Spanish Jesuit. 
To the maiden spoke the stranger 
Of the Spirit who created 


Mountains, valleys, mighty rivers, 

And his Son had sent to save us, 

Who once died upon a gibbet, 

And he showed the sacred symbol 

Where with arms outstretched lay Jesus, 

For the sins of mankind suffering. 

"Christ doth love thee," then he told her, 

"Wilt refuse to be espoused 

To the Lord who loves thee dearly ? " 

"Since He loves me, Him I'll choose then," 

Meekly answered fair Winona. 

Then the Jesuit poured upon her 

The regenerating waters. 4 

Near the flowing Mississippi 
Stood a wooden cross erected 
By the pioneers and soldiers. 
Thither went the maid, Winona, 
There to pray, as was her custom: 
"Dearest Saviour," said the virgin, 
" When shall I behold thy coming? 
This the month of roses, lilies, 
Is the month for Indian wooing; 
I am thine, as I have promised, 
And to me Thou art espoused." 

But behind the ferns and briers 
Stood Meshotah, Indian warrior, 
And his mind was fierce from slaughter, 
Red his hand from gory carnage, 
Many scalps, still fresh and bloody, 
Wore he in his belt of wampum; 
And a tomahawk he brandished, 
Stained from Indian raid and skirmish, 
He had loved the sweet Winona, 
Now he hears her call another 
Dearest spouse, and her beloved. 
Filled with jealousy and anger, 
With a yell and Indian war whoop 
Springs he fiercely on his victim. 

Like the flower tempest-beaten 

Lay in death the fair Winona, 

As one sleeping on the greensward — 

Dead! — yet living now forever, 

Celebrating her espousals, 

In the blissful courts of Heaven, 

Whilst the zephyrs of the southland 

Wantoned with her raven tresses, 

And through oaks and smoky wigwams, 

Over swamp and misty lowland, 

Over lake and over rivers, 

Sadly sighing moaned and murmured: 

Oh, Winona! Oh, Winona!! 




NLY a smoker can realize what 
it is to be without tobacco. You 
feel an indescribable longing 
that sweetmeats or candies of 
any description cannot satisfy. 
Yet one might screw up courage 
enough to withstand this desire for a 
day or at least half a day, but when 
there is no hope to cheer on your flag- 
ging spirits, you become really sick. 
Such was my condition a few weeks 
before Christmas. Long since I had 
been going on stinted allowances that 
Christmas might replenish my scanty 
store before exhausted. But all my 
care proved unavailing, for just two 
weeks before that blessed time arrived 
I was left without a grain of tobacco. 

The eight o'clock bell called me to 
class without having been regaled by 
my accustomed smoke. During class 
the longing for that luxury grew stron- 
ger and stronger, until at last I became 
desperate. I must have -my smoke, 
cost what it might. I calculated on 
making a trip to the store and back in 
about 25 minutes. So just twenty min- 
utes before the end of the first hour and 
a half, I asked my teacher permission 
to go out, and as I received a gentle and 
sweet bow in assent I thought that my 
lucky star had risen that day. One of 
my classmates chanced to see me in the 
act of scaling the fence, and inquired 
whither I was going. As I was deter- 
mined to keep my secret to myself, I 
replied, only in the woods to collect 
some hickory nuts. He wished to ac- 
company me but I frightened him by 
hinting at the penance and the more 
than probability of being caught ; he 
wisely withdrew to the classroom and 
I darted off at the rate of a railroad car 
that is trying to make up for an hour's 

I welcomed the old ravine as my 
true friend and I considered myself 
perfectly safe while in his company, but 
as I was about to emerge I saw our 
wardrobe keeper waiting for the dum- 
my. I knew that my escapade, not to 

be heralded through the whole college, 
should be kept a secret from him, and 
I never felt so much like cursing when 
I saw the old dummy shifting about 
instead of speeding onward and taking 
the only obstacle out of my path. As 
my time was limited the slightest delay 
would tell against me, consequently it 
was with no little pleasure that I saw the 
train carry off the brother that I wished 
to be already in Mobile. I set off on a 
run to make up for lost time, but on 
turning the corner I met another brother 
bringing the mail. I pulled my slouched 
hat over my eyes and doubled my 
speed to escape detection. A few min- 
utes brought me to the store where all 
my wants, excepting I was obliged to 
take string tobacco instead of fine cut, 
were satisfied. With a lighted cigar- 
ette I came puffing down the road in 
the hope that my absence had not been 
noticed. The five minutes recreation 
had taken place, the boys had returned 
to their classes and the prefect was not 
to be seen. I stole into the study hall 
and was depositing the tobacco in my 
desk when a little urchin, whom neither 
by threats nor promises I could keep 
away, saw my two packs. I went to 
class and gave an excuse that passed 
for current. 

I congratulated myself during the 
day that my secret was my own. 1 his 
confidence, however, was sorely shaken 
when I was told during the night study 
that the Vice-President wanted to see 
me. As he described everything mi- 
nutely I thought it was best to tell the 
truth, and owned that I had gone to 
the store to purchase tobacco. He 
then administered some striking argu- 
guments to dissuade me from a second 
attempt. I would fain be convinced 
after the first three or four, but he con 
tinued striving after effect and, I must 
confess, he made a good impression. 
And since I have been taught by ex- 
perience I advise all my young associ- 
ates not to run a similar risk. 

A. Rabackkr. 






Before the fifty sages 

Stood Catharine, the maid; 
Aided by heavenly wisdom 

She waited undismayed. 
She was but eighteen summers, 

Of seraph mould she seemed; 
Both innocence and beauty 

Upon her visage beamed. 
The sophists wished to force her 

The false gods to adore; 
They used but subtle learning — 

Each skilled in Pagan lore. 
As Christ once taught the Doctors, 

A child midst greybeards found, 
So did this modest virgin 

The Elders' words confound. 
Before this girl of eighteen 

Her judges now became 
Disciples to her teaching, 

And won the Christian name. 


Four wheels of huge dimensions, 

With blades and pikes of steel, 
Concentric when revolving, 

Are like the thunder's peal 
When grating on their axles; 

And like lightning's sheen 
Appear the bristling spikelets, 

So trenchant and so keen. 
Bound to a wheel Saint Catharine 

Right in their center lay, 
And lo! the Alexandrians 

Commence the shafts to play; 
When from on high an Angel 

Doth strike each pointed wheel. 
I' the air they fly in shivers, 

And whilst the Paymins reel, 
Struck by the blasted fragments; 

In prayer, with clasped hands, 
Upon the shattered ruins 

Secure, Saint Cath'rine stands! 


Again she kneels in prayer, 

The headsman now is near; 
Impatient for the signal, 

She waits devoid of fear. 
Flashes the gleaming falchion, 

The fatal stroke descends, 
Both life and all her torments 

The murd'rous weapon ends. 



A lily by the tempest 

Beaten against the ground, — 
Thus lay her corpse extended, 

Which no one ever found. 
For from his throne in heaven, 

Jesus, her faithful spouse, 
Sent down four radiant Angels 

For her who kept her vows. 
The night had veiled her body 

With sable, spangled pall, 
But when the East was reddened, 

Obedient to his call, 
Gliding upon the sunbeam, 

The Angels winged their way 
To where the Saint was sleeping, 

To where Saint Cath'rine lay. 
They gently raised the body, 

And mounted in the air; 
With reverence they wafted 

The spouse so young and fair. 
I' the liquid air whilst passing 

They scarcely seem to glide; 
At length upon Mount Sinai 

They place the Saviour's bride. 


Great Patroness of Letters, 

Philosopher divine, 
All at thy learning marvelled* 

For Christian lore was thine; 
We thee implore for succour, 

In ev'ry daily task; 
To us impart true learning, 

For this is all we ask. 





ORE than one hundred and 
eighty years have passed since 
John Baptist Bienville watch- 
ed by the cradle of Mobile. 
He had transferred his lit- 
tle colony from Biloxi to 
the southern shores of Alabama, 
where the Choctaw then hunted the 
wild deer. The Sieur de Bienville 
saw that the shore of the bay was bet- 
ter adapted than Biloxi for becoming 
the centre of a great colony. Bien- 
ville had chosen his site, but if that 
bold adventurer were to return to the 
Alabamian shores would he find his 
hopes realized? The red man no 
longer inhabits the forests ; his canoe 
no longer skims the waters of the bay. 
Bienville would find a change, but 
would it be such as he had wished to 

see? Would he find a city command- 
ing the commerce of the gulf? Would 
he find a city such as her geographical 
position must have made him foresee 
in the distant future. I fear he would 
not. Nature has done a great deal for 
Mobile ; but nature cannot do all. 
Her citizens must do something to 
procure her greatness. 

Will Mobile rise? Will it grow? 
Can it increase? Is there any life in 
Mobile ? Any enterprise to be found 
there ? These are some of the questions 
we not unfrequently hear asked, and 
not unfrequently are they answered 
at random without taking the trouble 
to see on what premises the arguments 
for and against the city are based. 

It is not every city that has sprung 
up and taken its place amongst the 



great cities of the world, as Chicago, 
San Francisco, St. Paul, Minneapolis 
and others have done. Their growth 
is something marvelous. Other great 
cities, like Philadelphia, New Orleans, 
Baltimore, etc., took a comparatively 
long time to attain their present great- 
ness and importance in the commercial 
world. It must also be remarked 
that the great increase, both in poula- 
tion and in commerce of many of our 
now most important cities has taken 
place since', the war. 

The South lost in the great struggle, 
which now nearly thirty years ago de- 
luged this country with the blood of 

her noblest and bravest sons. Agri- 
culture and commerce were for a time 
paralized. But though their fields were 
laid waste, and their credit ruined, 
nevertheless the Southern people did 
not lose heart. They had to begin 
again the battle of life. They had to 
build on the ruins of the fallen Con- 
federacy, a New South surpassing the 
old in its resources and commerce. 
They had to re-enter the great com- 
mercial struggle and fight against over- 
whelming odds. 

Mobile shared the fate of the van- 
quished. She was struck down in her 

commerce by the ruthless hand of war. 
She was set back for more than a gen- 
eration ; but her time is yet to come. 
Mobile, as everyone knows, is built 
on a level plateau, some twelve or fif- 
teen feet above the bay of the same 
name. The ground is low and marshy 
if you will. But was not Chicago 
built on the marshy soil of Lake Mich- 
igan ? Were not some of the greatest 
cities of Europe built on soil more 
swampy than the shores of Mobile 
Bay? Did not the grand and stately 
palaces of the Czars rise from the 
marshy banks of the Neva, then one of 
the most unhealthy localities of the 
world? Was not Paris, 
that city of splendid pal- 
aces and stately churches, 
built on what you would 
call a mud hole — as its 
Latin name signifies, 
Luielia Parisiorum? Mo- 
bile may be less favored 
by soil than some cities, 
but nearly all maritime 
cities have had the same 
difficulties to contend 

Mobile is, and must be, 
the chief seaport of Al- 
abama. Her position 
makes her the natural 
outlet for the mineral 
and agricultural wealth 
of Alabama and Missis- 
sippi, the latter having 
no available seaport. 
Now, when we consider 
the commercial pros- 
pects of a place, the geo- 
graphical situation is no 
small factor in our estimate. Let 
us then- see what her natural position 
has done for Mobile. We know that 
Mobile is situated in easy water com- 
munication with the greater part of the 
state; she is in easy water communi- 
cation with the tropical countries of 
Central and South America. Let us 
now consider what each one of these 
two routes is worth to Mobile. All 
the great mineral wealth of Alabama 
must have an outlet. It must find its 
way to the foreign markets. The iron 
and steel from the mines and works 
around Birmingham and Selma is infe- 



rior to none in the world ; and Ala- 
bama coal is even preferred by some 
to the best Pittsburg article. Now 
Alabama producing iron and coal, will 
naturally become a manufacturing 
state, and Mobile will be the port of 
exportation for these manufactories. 
Alabama lumber is also in great de- 
mand in the foreign markets. A large 
quantity is annually shipped from Mo- 
bile, and can be shipped cheaper from 
Mobile than from any other port in the 
Union, since everyone knows that 
transportation by water is cheaper than 


transportation by rail. This holds 
good also for the transport of cot- 
ton Why should cotton for the Liv- 
erpool and other European markets be 
sent first a thousand miles by rail be- 
fore shipping it, when it could be 
shipped from the Mobile wharves, 
where the river steamers land it. 

As Chicago is the great station on 
the highway of the great lakes, so 
Mobile has been naturally placed on 

the great highway between the states 
of Central and South America, with 
their wealth of tropical products, and 
the great West, with her numerous 
cities and towns furnishing ready mar- 
ket for these imports. If the winter 
fruits of the tropics must reach the 
West by the shortest route, what is 
more natural than that they should be 
imported through Mobile. 

What, then, has prevented Mobile 
from becoming a great fruit market? 
Want of enterprise — the same old 
story. If these industries were fostered 
it would mean untold 
wealth for Mobile. 
It would give employ- 
ment to thousands of 
men. Fast trains 

would leave daily for 
North and West with 
cargoes of fruit. 
Steamers from every 
port of Central and 
South America would 
flock to Mobile. Her 
cotton and iron could 
be shipped to the Eu- 
ropean ports, and soon 
the Mobile of the 
present would be lost 
in the great Mobile 
of the future. 

The gulf and bay 
has its riches in fish 
and oysters. What 
a rich trade could be 
developed ; whereas 
the fishing industry of 
Mobile is insignificant, 
as there is but one 
pound of fish shipped 
from Mobile for every 
ton that might be 
taken from the ba£. 
There are many things needed for a 
seaport that pass unnoticed by the un- 
initiated. A dry dock is one of these 
essentials; yet how few think it so. 
Nevertheless, there are few captains 
who care to come into a harbor where 
they cannot obtain the assistance which 
to the weather-beaten vessel a dry 
dock quickly affords. This want we 
hope to see soon supplied. 



The improvements in the harbor are 
also of the greatest importance to the 
future of Mobile. Vessels can now 
enter the bay drawing nineteen feet of 
water ; with a little expense on the 
part of the general government her 
harbor can be made to receive the 
largest vessels afloat. 

Congress has appropriated $6,000,- 
000 for the Galveston harbor, why can it 
not appropriate some three or four mil- 
lions for Mobile ? True, it is, that appro- 


priations have been made from time 
time for Mobile, but these, however 
valuable, have been found inadequate. 

But there are many things that can 
be remedied without the aid of the cen- 
tral, government. The streets have been 
much improved during the past few 
years. Measures have been taken for 
better sewerage and better sanitary ar- 
rangements. The fire department has 
been reorganized; in fact everything 
points to a new era in Mobile. 

The climate is unsurpassed for health. 
The absence of malaria is well estab- 
lished. It might be well to quote here 
the testimony of an eminent physician 
on this subject; "It is my opinion that 

such a climate and surroundings exist 
no where else on the American conti- 
nent. I am aware that many parts of 
the southern country hold forth induce- 
ments to invalids from colder latitude, 
and thousands flock to Florida, but these 
resorts, though furnishing the required 
temperature, cannot boast of that free- 
dom from malaria for which the gulf 
coast is noted. What is wanted by such 
invalids is a dry, sandy soil and a mild, 
southern sea breeze. These requisites 
are to be found in the 
City of Mobile and its 
vicinity to a greater ex- 
tent than can be found 
anywhere else either in 
this country or on the 
shores of the Mediter- 
ranean." The City of 
Mobile has a climate 
also excellent for all 
chronic diseases. It is 
almost free from the rav- 
ages of yellow fever, 
which has so often proved 
a scourge to the coast of 
Florida and Louisiana. 
It would be useless to 
quote statistics here, for 
statistics, no matter how 
true, are seldom trusted. 
With a more modern 
quarantine plant Mobile 
would be comparatively 
safe from the contagious 
diseases of foreign coun- 
tries. We are glad to be 
in this instance that a 
on foot to meet this re- 

able to state 
movement is 
quirement of the times. 

Mobile has a water supply second to 
none in the world. It receives its sup- 
ply from a beautiful stream of the 
clearest water, situated on a hill at a 
distance of about eight miles from the 

The temperature is mild the whole 
year, seldom going above 96 F. in 
summer, nor below 36 F. in winter. 
It is cooler in Mobile during the sum- 
mer months than in many of the far- 
famed northern summer resorts. 

With a very moderate outlay the 
suburbs of Mobile and the bay shore 
could be made second to no city in the 



union. The suburbs are high and dry 
and totally free from the swamps which 
have so often proved a bane to many of 
our southern cities. The dry, sandy 
hills which surround the city could be 
made the happy homes of thousands, 

and a place to which tired humanity 
could retire to enjoy the refreshing 
breeze from the gulf and breathe the 
balmy air from the neighboring woods. 



[From the French.] 

ujlrN one of the faubourgs of Paris 
\W; lived Mile, de Champignon, a 
>^ single lady, known about the 
Cq neighborhood for spinster eccen- 
J? tricities ; the most remarkable be- 
(s ing a certain predeliction for a 
torn cat, which she had raised since it 
was a kitten. This pet was a fine 
specimen of the feline tribe, — black and 
white, sleek, furry and capricious. In 
summer he would bask in the sun, 
immania lerga resolvit fusus humi, and 
in winter pincushion-like it would coil 
itself before the fireplace. But like a 
spoiled child, for whom the rod has 
been spared, Grimalkin acquired cer- 
tain evil habits: — as the Scriptures 
say, it had grown fat and kicked. 
Jean, Mile, de Champignon's homme 
de chambre, had become immediately 
acquainted with these incorrigible de- 
fects, for whenever he ascended the 
staircase, he was obliged to carry a pail 

and mop, and to well! to scrub 

the steps oftener than usual. 

The last straw breaks the camel's 
back, and though Jean was very pa- 
tient, his spirit rebelled at the idea of 
being subjected to the caprices of an 
old maid and her favorite animal. The 
cat must be done away with by all 
means, but how? — hie labor, hoc opus 
erat. He could not accomplish this 
openly for he would be dismissed ; he 
had recourse to stratagem. Whilst his 
mistress paid visits to the city, he took 
the cat to a secluded chamber, and 
there belaboured the unfortunate ani- 
mal most unmercifully with a rope. 
This treatment he continued for three 
weeks, kneeling down before the cere- 
mony of flagellation, so that at the end 
of the time he had trained his victim. 
One day he brought the startling news 

to his mistress that Bijou was possessed 
— yes, possessed of a real devil. 

" Bon Dieu!" she exclaimed, throw- 
ing up her hands; "but wait: first, 
show me some proof.'" The accused 
was brought in, appearing exceedingly 
passive. "Now for the exorcism," said 
Jean. No sooner had he knelt down, 
and begun to cross himself, than the 
cat's hair stood on end and its tail shot 
out perpendicularly. Jean drew his 
beads and shook them at Bijou, who, 
thinking it was the rope, began to spit 
and growl. As the grand inquisitor 
approached the animal withdrew and 
sprang to the opposite end of the room. 
"Kneel down, and pray yourself," 
said Jean, most piteously. Mile, de 
Champignon did so, but this was too 
much for the cat. Almost driven to 
hysterics with fear it leaped from one 
piece of furniture to the other with, 
more agility than Irving's army, which 
captured the city of Gotham by force — 
of heel and toe. Bijou's capers were ac- 
companied with the sound of midnight 
soprano mewings a la Patti. The 
scene became .exciting — clapper-claw- 
ing — the cat pirouetting with vim — 
bric-a-brac overturned — but here came 
the culminating point of Jean's victory. 
The cat, in one of its sauts.perilleux, ac- 
cidentally overthrew and broke a statu- 
ette of our Lord, which had been 
blessed by Pius IX. It had the desired 
effect. That the cat was possessed 
was evident, so much so, that the 
spinster ordered her servant to do what- 
ever he wished with it. 

Jean, laughing in his sleeve, took 
hold of the infuriated animal, and that 
night when the cathedral clock struck 
ten Bijou, with a stone tied around its 
neck, lay at the bottom of the Seine. 





There is a great deal of sameness 
about college life, and yet every year 
seems to have something so different 
from the preceding one New faces 
supply the places of old ones: New 
friends come to compensate us for de- 
parted ones; and new teachers and pre- 
fects take the place of those whom we 
so well remember. And then, again, the 
old boys are somewhat changed. The 
First Grammar boy has become a Belles 
Lettrician, and the Rhetorician, now a 
Philosopher, looks down upon every- 
thing that is not philosophy. Yet so it 
always has been and so it always will be. 

The 3rd of September brought more 
new boys to Spring Hill this year than 
had been there on the opening day for 
many years; and I think it is owing to 
this fact that that terrible disease called 
homesickness, which is so contagious 
among school boys, assumed such pro- 
portions this year. It appeared mostly 
in the Senior Division, and many boys 
who had already been at college many 
years were attacked by it. Of course no 
big boy would acknowledge that he was 
homesick. Oh, no! he was only feeling 
a little unwell, and would soon be all right 
again. He did not, however, deny that 
he would like to be at home, and that 
he thought it would be better for him to 
be at work than to be at school. -But of 
course he could not say that this pro- 
ceeded from homesickness. 

The lake is always, for old and new, a 
source of amusement. This year even 
homesickness could not resist its influ- 
ence, and the bathing was kept up until 
very late in the season. It was only 
when the golden leaves of autumn began 
to fall that the boys could be persuaded 
that it was too chilly to bathe. 

Despite the wrangling of the base-ball 
magnates the national game was kept up 
in the Junior Division until near Christ- 
mas. They had two very well matched 
clubs, and they played some splendid 
games. The games also were often made 
more exciting by the prefect putting up 
some prize for the winning side. In the 
Senior Division, however, the presence 
of a new hand-ball alley and homesick- 

ness interfered with patriotism, and the 
national game was neglected. 

This year the exhibitions were equal, 
and in some respects superior, to those 
of previous years. The Philosophers 
gave a kind of impromptu exhibition the 
first month which succeeded splendidly. 
It was a pleasant surprise to the audi- 
ence, who did not expect it, as the Phi- 
losophers in former years had been 
exempt from giving an exhibition. Al- 
though gotten up only a day or two before 
hand they acquitted themselves with 
honor, and received well merited ap- 

On the 1st of November, All Saints 
Day, the boys had the usual athletic 
sports for prizes, and they enjoyed them- 
selves very much. But this year they 
did not take as much interest in them 
as they did in former years, and there 
were not as many contestants as there 
usually are. Still those that tried made 
some pretty good records, and came up 
with previous ones. 

In November the Rhetoricians gave a 
very fine literary entertainment. Clay, 
Calhoun, Webster, and their respective 
merits, were the subjects of the essays, 
while some selections from their speeches 
given as declamations, received great 
applause; and the glee club and brass 
band, which were formed entirely of the 
members of the class, lent a new and 
enjoyable feature to the entertainment. 

The 22d of November, St. Catharine's 
Day, was celebrated as usual by the Phi- 
losophers. It is a peculiar fact that 
however the Philosophers may forget 
the Alexandrian virgin during their 
studies, they always remember her on 
her feast. 

On the 8th of December the ilium in a" 

tions about the Blessed Virgin's statue, 
fronting the north portico, were indeed 
beautiful. As usual the boys went out 
there in the evening, but, on account of 
the coldness of the weather and the fact 
that the boys had to stand out in the air 
during the whole time, the band did not 
play and only two canticles were sung. 



Belle Lettres and First Commercial 
came to the front in the December ex- 
hibition. Some fine essays were read on 
Milton and the Lake School of Poetry, 
but the Juniors seemed to appreciate 
Thomas Heins' dissertation on "The 
Cat" more than these literary exercises. 
A Latin poem by one of its members 
was also well enjoyed, and a song by 
Masters Joseph Mulherin and John 
L. Armstrong added to the enjoyment 
of the occasion. 

This year the Junior brass band has 
grown to be a very good one. They are 
ambitious to obtain the name of The 
College Band and beat the Seniors. 
They appeared for the first time in their 
suits, "gray and gold," a few days be- 
fore Christmas, looking exceedingly well 
in them. I don't think that there ever 
was any soldier who donned the gray, who 
was prouder of his colors than were the 
Juniors when they appeared in their new 
suits. They have, however, good rea- 
son to be proud of themselves, not only 
on account of their suits but also on ac- 
count of the great progress they have 
made thi-s year, and the correctness and 
exquisite taste with which they now play. 
In fact, I think that if the Junior Band 
continues to advance as it has done so 
far it will soon be able to compare with 
the Senior Band. 

Christmas comes with all its surround- 
ings of boxes, fireworks, and last but 
not least the Christmas fires Each year 
brings around its rivalry between the 
Junior and Senior D visions, and this 
year an unforeseen accident occurred to 
increase this rivalry. When the little 
boys had finished building their fire they 
placed upon the top an old stuffed bear. 
This the large boys determined to get; 
but all their efforts to that effect were 
frustrated by the vigilance of the 
Juniors. So on Christmas Day they be- 
gan to shoot at it with sky-rockets. One 
of these going too low struck in the 
middle of the pile and burst. It imme- 
diately took fire and was soon burned to 
the ground. This helped to materially 
mar the pleasure of the evening, for 
since the little boys had no longer any 
fire they did not care to shoot off any 
fireworks. But on New Year's they 
built another fire and had a grand dis- 

play, throwing their rivals completely in 
the shade. 

On New Year's Eve the Senior Acad- 
emy gave their annual entertainment en- 
titled "The Virginian Mummy." It 
was a very laughable piece, and the 
Academy deserve great praise for the 
way in which they rendered it. 

The feasts of Christmas over, some- 
thing more serious awaited us. Our an- 
nual retreat began on the fifteenth of 
January and ended on the feast of the 
Holy Name. It was given by Rev. Fr. 
Downey and was followed attentively 
by his young audience, who took this 
occasion of freedom from study to think 
seriously of a more important affair than 
play and pleasure. Both the preacher 
and the boys must have been pleased 
with the result of the retreat, for seldom 
have the fruits of a retreat been more 
visible than this year. 

The Junior Academy gave a very 
pretty entertainment at Half Session. 
It was entitled "The Lost Heir." They 
are especially to be congratulated as 
they had so little time to prepare. Any 
defects which occurred, the audience 
rightly attributed to the fact that the 
actors had their Half Session examina- 
tion to study, together with their own 

The Senior Brass Band appeared for 
the first time in their new uniforms, "blue 
and gold," at the Half Session They 
look a great deal better than they did in 
their old ones, and they are to be com- 
plimented on their fine appearance. But 
it is not for this alone that they should be 
complimented but also for their music. 
Indeed, the band th s year, although 
rather poor in the beginning, has picked 
up wonderfully, and is now equal to the 
bands of the last two or three years, and 
even beats last year. 

The orchestra, always the boast of 
Spring Hill, is. every month adding to 
its laurels. If new instruments and 
purely classical music can afford pleas- 
ure, he would certainly be considered 
hypercritical who would not appreciate 
the overtures played at our monthly en- 

C. P. Mulherin. 




J., died on the 26th of Decem- 
ber, 1890. As a boy he was 
singularly mild and gentle and 
pious. The stamp of innocence 
was on his face. You could 
have seen it in his every action. He 
was of a bright and cheerful disposi- 
tion ; often serious without being too 
grave. He was generally sprightly 
without being trivial. 

At times, it is true, you might have 
noticed a certain gravity about him, 
which seemed ill to comport with his 
youthful age ; but, on better acquaint- 
ance, you would have found that this 
occasional gravity was the outcome of 
a mind naturally given to thought be- 
yond his years. For his later life 
showed that his mind was cast in a 
mould essentially meditative and re- 
flective. At the age of 13 he went to 
St. Francis Xavier's College, Cincin- 
nati. As he advanced in his college 
course he won the respect and affection 
of his professors and companions by his 
unassuming piety, his engaging man- 
ners, his studious application and by 
the marked proficiency which he at- 
tained in his studies. 

Thus throughout his boyhood days 
he gave every promise of a future that 
should be both useful to the Church and 
honorable to his family. And his short 
life as a Jesuit did not belie the happy 
auguries of his earlier years ; for his 
powers, ripening with the progress of 
time, gave but an added lustre and a 
more exalted beauty to the qualities 
which made him so amiable as a boy. 
The fall of 1883 found him a novice 
at the Jesuit novitiate, Florissant, Mo. 

Here he was a model religious ; here 
he showed himself once more the faith- 
ful and successful student. 

After the usual term spent at the 
novitiate, he went to Woodstock, Md., 
where he pursued the philosophical 
studies of the Society with that happy 
success so characteristic of all his un- 
dertakings. After completing his 
course of philosophy, he returned to the 
St. Louis University, St. Louis, to teach 
the class of poetry. Here he gained 
the esteem and warm friendship of all 
with whom he came in contact. 

About two months ago his death 
sickness came upon him. A cold he 
then contracted took a firm hold on his 
never robust frame. At first it was be- 
lieved that this would pass away ; but 
he soon began to droop. 

It was a melancholy experience for 
his brother religious and friends to see 
him wasting away. Every thing that 
art could suggest or charity devise was 
done for him, but to no purpose. 

Finally his Superior thought that a 
change of climate might benefit his 
delicate health. It was then that he 
came in our midst to breathe the exhila- 
rating air of Spring Hill. He was with 
us only two weeks, when the long- 
threatened stroke arrived, when the fi- 
nal summons came, and on the 26th the 
soul of Mr. Hussey left its earthly tab- 
ernacle and went to its eternal reward. 

To his bereaved family the Album 
extends its heartfelt condolence and the 
assurance of the earnest, prayerful re- 
membrance of the Faculty and students 
of Spring Hill College. 

May his soul rest in peace 


O/S^HE permission to go to town 
y$\ after much solicitation and 
many promises, was at last 
granted. With unfeigned pleas- 
ure I left my fellow students in 
the study hall to spend several 
long hours in seeking Greek roots or in 
smoothing away quadratics, and has- 
tened to catch the car. Nor was my 

utmost speed unnecessary, for I had 
just reached the track when the engine 
came puffing and groanjng on its way 
to Mobile. As we rattled past woods 
and farms and cottages, I was picturing 
the many joys that awaited me at the 
end of my journey. Already I fancied 
I saw my parents, brothers and sisters, 
and my brain was busy in preparing to 



ply them with a thousand queries. The 
old engine seemed sensible of my emo- 
tions and quickened its pace to satisfy 
my desire. But, unfortunately, as she 
was going at a rate to make the inmates 
of dwellings rush to the windows, and to 
open wide the mouth of every person 
along the way, she jumped the track. 
Great was the shaking up I received, 
but greater still was my indignation at 
seeing all my anticipated pleasures 
thus delayed. The meditated conver- 
sation cut short before commenced, the 
sight that in a few minutes would have 
gladdened my eyes, now put off for 
several hours. In pure disgust I threw 
myself down in the seat, whither the 
following thoughts like a crowd of hor- 
nets pursued me : How often have I 
noticed a pleasant character for days 
beaming happiness on all around, when 
owing to a change in the weather qy to 
some other reason, that bright, genial 
face is obscured, and I see only the 
darkness of the tempest within and feel 
the chill of cold words and actions. It 
is too plain that my happy friend is off 
the track, and he cannot but be sensi- 
ble of his situation since he hears from 
all sides the words, "You are off." 

At times we boys throw aside strict 
discipline and "cudgel our brains" to 
find out the means of making fun. 
Our efforts do not remain inside the 
playgrounds but follow us to the study 
room, in fact all through the college. 
We think nothing too trifling if it will 
only raise a laugh. But when we are 
in the midst of our joy, deeming our- 
selves perfectly contented and happy, 
the prefect unawares pounces upon us. 
and with a heavy penance makes us 
feel to our discomfort that we have 
jumped the track. 

Again, some of us easy-going char- 
acters allow time to glide by without 
preparing lessons or making exercises, 
thinking ourselves on the summit of 
happiness when we see the days shove 

one another along without effort on our 
part. Suddenly, however, examina- 
tions arrive, and when we flounder 
from mistake to mistake, or, blushing, 
give the most humiliating of all answers, 
"I don't know, sir." Ah, then we are 
too sensitive of having jumped the 

Vacation then follows. That period 
that is dearest to the heart of every col- 
lege boy. We forget the petty annoy- 
ances of the past year and give our- 
selves up to pleasures that for ten long 
months were walled out by college pre- 
cincts. The days glide by so rapidly 
that we are unable to keep account of 
them. Weeks go into months, until at 
last our time has expired ; we are hur- 
ried back to college still buoyed up by 
past recollections. But a feeling of 
sadness comes over us and all our joy 
is turned to pain when we find we must 
repeat the class. Thus suddenly ar- 
rested on our journey of happiness, no 
deep thinking need tell us that we have 
jumped the track. 

And when we come to the end of 
our college course and find that we are 
a year or two behind time, Oh, parents 
and friends, you need not inquire the 
cause of our delay. It is evident that 
on some part of our road, when we 
had been going on smoothly and even 
rapidly we suddenly jumped the track. 
And no doubt in after life, when we 
shall be engaged in the manifold duties 
'of the mercantile establishment, or in 
the high profession of jurist when we 
are striving to protect the weak and 
bring the midnight assassin to justice, or 
in the noble vocation of physician when 
we are employed in blunting the ar- 
rows of disease, or in the useful calling 
of civil engineers when we are busy in 
throwing mighty bridges over swift 
currents or in leading railroads across 
mountains and over valleys, we shall 
deeply lament the time that we have 
spent off the track. Alabama. 


Remember the Lord in the days of thy youth, 
For one by one will thy friends drop away; 

Love Him, ihe Almighty, the Saviour, the Truth, 
Thou, helpless left in old age shall decay. 

Thy friends they are false, thy friends they are dead, 
But He'll be thy guide by which thou art led. 




HE little town of Reville is 
situated not far distant from 
the city of Algiers. On all 
sides lofty mountains tower 
into the azure vault of heaven. 
A long, low, irregular build- 
ing, surrounded by a high wall, lies 
not far from the town. Situated as it 
is at the base of a large mountain, it 
gives a much livelier aspect to the 
scene without; but within its walls 
nothing but misery, crime and sin reign 
among the brutal soldiery. It is here 
that those unfortunate enough to be 
captured pass away the dreary hours 
of their captivity. In the warm sum- 
mer days they were escorted by a 
guard to a rocky prominence overlook- 
ing the Mediterranean ; here, during 
the intense heat of the day, they were 
forced to work on a road which was 
being cut through the rocky slope. A 
party of these wretches were one day 
wending their toilsome way up the 
brow of a cliff. On reaching the top, 
overcome with weariness and fatigue, 
they halted ; but the guards rudely 
commanded them to continue their 
work. " Roger, I can stand it no 
longer," said a young man, as he, 
without exciting the attention of the 
soldiers, drew his friend toward a 
clump of trees. " But we must stand 
it," replied the other. "No; the 
time has arrived at last for our escape. 
Do you not see that faint speck far out 
upon the bay? It is evidently a ship, 
to which you with my assistance shall 
swim." Seizing his companion's arm 
the youth, goaded to desperation, 
leaped from the edge of the cliff into 
the sea below. For a moment both 
were lost to sight, but they quickly 
reappeared upon the surface. A boat 
was instantly sent to capture them, but, 

by diving under the water, the young 
men baffled their pursuers, who soon 
gave up the chase. 

Just as their escape seemed certain, 
Roger, imagining that he retarded his 
friend's progress, released his hold and 
would have sunk had not the young 
man seized him by the hair. Antonio, 
for such was the name of this vigorous 
swimmer, directed his way toward a 
boat which had been lowered from the 
starboard of the brigantine, and was 
quickly advancing toward them. By 
this time Antonio, burdened as he 
was with his drowning companion's 
body, was completely exhausted. His 
strength was rapidly failing, but seeing 
the friendly boat not far distant he 
bravely struggled to maintain his head 
above the surging waters. The boat 
was now comparatively near, and just 
as Antonio exhausted began to sink, a 
seaman grasped the unconscious forms 
of both. 

When Roger once more awoke to 
a recollection of the events above 
recorded, he found himself on board a 
strange vessel. The lifeless body of 
his friend, however, attracting his 
attention, he, in a paroxysm of grief, 
was about to cast himself overboard. 
From this, however, he was prevented 
on hearing a sigh escape from the half- 
closed lips of his companion. Hasten- 
ing to him he had the happiness to 
clasp his friend in a warm embrace. 
Nothing else need be recorded save 
that the ship, which was bound for 
Pontus, soon reached its destination. 
Roger was now forced to quit the side 
of his beloved companion and seek in 
his own native land his friends and 

Carroll Smith. 

If the face alone, O my friend, did change, 

It would matter little to me ; 
But the heart is false, and 'tis true, though strange, 

And for this I grieve now with thee. 
It takes years to kindle a spark of love, 

Which an hour doth quickly destroy; 
Thus all friendship dies, as each day doth prove, 

For on earth short meted is joy. 





HILE on a visit to Spring Hill 
College, a short time ago, I 
had the pleasure of seeing its 
picturesque little lake. 

It was the hour of sunset 
when I sauntered into the 
beautiful little hollow where repose 
its calm waters. Here my eyes were 
regaled with a scene that I shall not 
soon forget. Before me lay a placid 
sheet of water. Upon its mirror-like 
surface were reflected the purple and 
golden-tinted clouds of sunset, framed 
in by the deep-green trees and fan- 
tastic vines, pictured in bolder relief 
along the shore. A grassy walk forms 
the border of the lake. This walk is 
in turn surrounded by a thick under- 
growth, from which the fragrant mag- 
nolia, the sombre cedar, the lofty 
cypress, and towering pine, majesti- 
cally rise and calmly look down upon 
the glassy bosom of the sleeping lake, 
like proud custodians watching over its 
repose, never disturbed save by the 
ripples of the fanning breeze. 

The lake is fed by a numJber of 
springs which rise in its basin, but 
principally by a large one situated in 
its northern extremity. This spring in 
fact gives the hill its name, and pours 
forth a limpid stream of the coolest 
and purest water at the astonishing 
rate of seventy or seventy-five gallons 
per minute. A neat rustic shed pro- 

tects the spring, and offers at the same 
time a splendid retreat from the scorch- 
ing rays of the summer sun. Upon a 
pretty pedestal above the shed stands 
a beautiful statue of the Madonna, 
calmly looking down upon the scene 
below. This statue is now commonly 
known as Our Lady of the Lake. 

The outlet is situated on the southern 
bank and yields a plentiful stream of 
three hundred gallons per minute, 
which is utilized by a turbine wheel in 
supplying the college with an abun- 
dance of water. 

Reclining at ease upon a rustic bench 
I soon became lost in quiet admiration 
at the lovely scene unfolded to my 
gaze, now greatly enhanced by the 
enchanting veil of dusk. But soon the 
bright face of the moon roused me 
from my reverie as she peeped over 
the treetops to my right. The slum- 
bering lake too seemed to awake from 
its peaceful sleep and began to reflect 
in lengthening streaks the soft rays of 
the gentle queen of night. The ming- 
ling voices of myriads of insects which 
had been gradually increasing now 
completely filled the air, and reminded 
me that the night had come. I arose 
to retrace my steps, but my feet seemed 
loathe to leave one of the most beauti- 
ful spots my eyes had ever gazed upon. 

Karl Heusner. 


•RINCIPEM me appellatis, rec- 
teque eum principem appellatis, 
qui per duodecim longos annos 
cuiquam hominis bestiaeve for- 
mae, quam lata Romae respub- 
lica praestare potuerit, in arena 
obviam iens, brachium nondum demis- 
erit. Si sit unus quidem ex vobis, qui 
meam linguam publico in certamine 
aut privata in rixa gestis unquam esse 
impugnatam dicat, adstans, dicat. Si 
sint tres autem cuncta ex manu vestra 
qui cruenta in arena mihi obviam stare 
audeant, adstent. 

Jam vero non semper ejusdem animi 
fill, non semper lanius conductus, ferox 
etiam ferociorum virorum princeps. 

Majores enim ab antiqua Sparta 
devenientes apud Syrasellae saxa viti- 
bus induta citreosque lucos consede- 
runt. Mea pueritia placida tamquam 
rivuli juxta quos ludebam, defluebat ; 
meridie vero ovibus sub umbra deduc- 
tis, pastoria tibia dum canerem, amicus 
erat, vicini filius, qui me ludo jungeret. 
Greges nostros ad idem pascuum du- 
centes, ejusdem cibi agrestis participes 
fuimus. Quodam autem vesperi, ovi- 
bus in crates inclusis, omnes, sub myrto 
quae tugurium umbrabat, sedebamus, 
avusque, senex, de IVTarathone Leuc- 
trisque loquens, quomodo, antiquis 
temporibus Spartanorum parva manus 
in montium angustiis, toti agmini re- 



pugnavisset, enarrabat. Bellum quid 
esset tunc ego nesciebam meae autem 
genae ardebant, causam haud sciens, 
augusti senis genua complexus sum, 
donee mater, capillos a fronte remov- 
ens palpitantiaque tempora osculans, 
ad somnum ire et de istis antiquis nar- 
rationibus crudelibusque bellis nihil 
amplius cogitare me jussit. Ilia ipsa 
nocte, in litore Romani exposuerunt, 
Mammas quidem quae me nutrierant 
belli equi ungulis conculcatas vidi 
patris autem corpus cruentatum inter 
domus flammantes trabes jactum. 

Hodie virum in arena interfeci. Galeae 
fibula fracta, ecce ! meus erat amicus. 
Me recognoscens, languide subrisit 
anhelansque animam efflavit ; in labiis 
idem lenis risus, quern animae verte- 
bam cum, audaci pueritia, ut primas 
maturas uvas decerperemus, easque 
domum puerili exsultatione ferremus, 
altos scopulos, ascendebamus ! Prae- 
tori vero dixi mortuum meum fuisse 
amicum fortem ac generosum ; atque 
ut corpus in pyra conburendum et in 
cinere lugendum auferrem, rogavi. 
Imo vero in genibus arenae medio in 
pulvere ac sanguine, parvum illud 
donum efliagitavi, dum omnes puellae 
matronaeque ibi convocatae, sacraeque 
virgines, vestales nominatae atque vul- 
gus derisu declamabant, ludum infre- 
quentem forte judicantes videre Romae 
p-ladiatorem saevissimum cruento luto 
pallescentem et trementem ! Praetor 
autem, quasi contactus essem, rece- 
dens, superbe dixit: '"Putrefiat cada- 
ver! nobiles non sunt nisi Romani." 
Sic igitur, socii, gladiatores, mihi ac 
vobis tamquam canibus moriendum. 
Roma! Roma! tenera quidem nutrix 

mihi fuisti. Illi, pauperi, leni timido, 
pastorio-puero qui asperiorem sonum 
quam tibiae modum nunquam audiis- 
set, ferreos musculos siliceumque cor 
dedisti ; ensem per aeratam loricam ac 
duros aheneos annulos cogere et in 
inimici medulla calefacere, docuisti ; 
ferocis etiam Numidici leonis ardentes 
oculos, tamquam puer arridentem pu- 
ellam, adspectare. Te vero rependet, 
donee flavus Tiberis sicut spumans 
vinum rubescet altissimisque ejus in 
undis tuus sanguis congelatus jacet. 

Veluti gigantes, qui estis, hie statis! 
Aeris enim vis in duris nervis est ; 
eras vero Romanus Adonis quidam, 
dulcem odorem ex concrispatis capillis 
exhalans, lilaceisque digitis rubros 
musculos leviter feriens, in sanguine 
vestro sestertios sponsionem faciet. 
Attendite! leonem haud procul in 
antro rugientem nonne auditis? Tres 
jam dies carnem nullam degustavit ; 
eras vero ex vestra jejunium solvet 
delicatusque cibus ei praebebitis ! Si 
bestiae quidem sitis, hie tamquam 
pingues boves lanii cultrum exspectan- 
tes state! Sin autem viri, me sequimi- 
ni ! concidite ilium custodem, montis 
aditus capite ibique cruenta conficite 
sicut majores antiquis Thermopylis 
egerunt! Estne Sparta mortua, ut 
tamquam verberatus canis sub magistri 
flsigello, succumbatis ac subsidatis? 
Socii! milites! Thraces ! Si pugnan- 
dum quidem nobis sit, pro nobismet 
ipsis pugnemus ! Si trucidandum autem 
oppressores nostros trucidemus ! Si 
vero moriendum, sub placido coelo 
moriamur propter nitentes undas, in- 
signi honestaque pugna. 

J. Armstrong. 

LA true story.] 

In the camp confusion reigning, idle soldiers rattling dice, 
Some were sleeping, others cursing, in this hell, this haunt of vice ; 
Cannons' wheels are stuck in hollows, curses, blows, will pull them out, 
Such the scene in Grand Coteau once, in the Southerners' redout. 

One young soldier left the camp fire, and the college chapel found, 
There was benediction offered, knelt the soldier on the ground ; 
As he saw the Host uplifted, and he heard the silver bell, 
"This," said he, "is surely Heaven— in such peace could I e'er dwell. 




^J^T has been said that the extraor- 
JrJ\ dinary genius and talent of Al- 
^^ exander were, in a great part, 
nourished by the majestic pres- 
ence of Mount Olympus. Now 
if grand natural scenery tends 
permanently to affect the mind and 
character of those nurtured upon its 
bosom, we need not wonder that such 
firm patriotism and sublime eloquence 
is ingrafted in so many of New Hamp- 
shire's sons ; most strikingly in the 
greatest of them all, Daniel Webster. 

He was born in Salisbury, near the 
imposing " White Hills," at the source 
of the beautiful Merrimac, on the 18th 
of January, 1782. His father was a 
farmer, and also served as a soldier 
both in the old French and Revolution- 
ary wars. He even commanded a 
party of his neighbors and friends, at 
West Point, when the base treason of 
Arnold was discovered. 

Being born in a wild, uncultivated 
region, and in an age of savage war- 
fare, it cannot be supposed that the fa- 
cilities for acquiring a refined education 
were very great or easy of attainment ; 
and hence is the more praise and ad- 
miration due to the determined will 
and perseverance of our orator. 

Fortunately a New England school 
master found his way to Salisbury, and 
under his limited tuition, Webster be- 
gan his course of studies. At the age 
of sixteen, after a very imperfect prep- 
aration, he entered Dartmouth College 
and graduated in 1801. Such was the 
imperfect discipline which prepared 
Mr. Webster for the functions of his 
public life, and laid the corner stone 
of the grand and noble monument of 
true eloquence, which he afterwards 

Mr. Webster finished the study of law 
in Boston and was there admitted to 
the bar in 1805. 

From this time Webster began grad- 
ually to advance in the highest func- 
tions and the widest influence. The 
wisest judge of the state, Gov. Smith, 
and the most prominent lawyer, Mr. 
Mason, were his professional rivals and 
admiring friends. 

Called in early manhood to contest 


with the greatest veterans of the am- 
plest resources, and of the quickest 
penetration, he needed that industry 
and perseverance, which were lacking 
to very many of his young associates. 
In the wholesome school of severe and 
rugged professional practice, no won- 
der that Mr. Webster acquired that 
skill, rapidity of conception, and apt- 
ness of illustration, which subsequently 
rendered him greatly superior to most 
advocates and infeiior to none. 

In May, 18 13, Mr. Webster was 
chosen representative, and delivered 
his maiden speech on the Berlin and 
Milan decrees. At tnis time he was 
only thirty years of age, yet so sublime- 
ly and elegantly had he composed his 
speech, that it took by surprise, not 
only the generality of citizens, but also 
many of the most learned statesmen. 
Mr. Lowndes said, when he heard this 
discourse: "That the North had not 
his equal, nor the South his superior." 

He was elected from New Hampshire 
to the Fourteenth Congress, and sat 
there during the sessions of 1814-16. 
For the six ensuing years he refused to 
be elected to any office and took part 
in no political discussion. During this 
period he distinguished himself as a 
lawyer in Massachusetts, as well as in 
his native state, and all the more as 
two terms in Congress had caused him 
to be widely known as a distinguished 

In the autumn of 1822 Mr. Webster 
was triumphantly elected Representa- 
tive to Congress from the city of Bos- 
ton. Four years later he was re-elected 
almost unanimously to Congress, where 
he continued until 1841, when he was 
appointed secretary of state. Here he 
remained until 1845, and then again 
took his seat in the senate as successor to 
the Hon. Rufus Choate. Five years later 
Mr. Webster being once more appoint- 
ed secretary of state, remained in this 
department till his death. This sad 
event took place at his residence in 
Marsfield on the quiet Sabbath morn- 
ing of the 26th of October, 1852, in the 
seventieth year of his age. This short 
sketch will not allow us to study and 
exhibit sufficiently the many and mag- 



nificent efforts of his master mind. We 
must be satisfied with a glance at the 
chief features of his eloquence. 

Webster's mind was one of that rare 
class which aspires to the serenest 
heights, expatiates over the widest and 
most diversified domain, embracing at 
once the two poles of human intelli- 
gence, imagination the most imperial 
and science the most exact. The habit- 
ual traits of his style are sublimity of 
conception, grandeur of outline and 
breadth of meaning. 

Longinus believed that the sublime, 
as it is the highest excellence to which 
human composition can attain, abund- 
antly compensates the absence of every 
other beauty. Mr. Webster in com- 
pliance with this rule never seeks the 
aid of meretricious ornaments, how- 
ever elegant or graceful, but binds the 
language he employs strictly within the 
logical confines of the propositions he 
would demonstrate. 

Throughout all his speeches he pre- 
serves a senatorial dignity, and is by 
nature and education an orator most 
skillful in unravelling subtleties. He 
uses words as the means, not as the 
end; language is employed by him as 
the instrument, conviction he deems to 
be the work. Reason and imagina- 
tion dwell in his mind and characterize 
its soarings. . His reason obeying only 
its own iron force, seems reckless of 
every obstacle and shining through a 
medium of translucent light, yet invin- 
cible as an avalanche, is destined I be- 
lieve, as long as the English language 
endures, to subsist unimpaired in the 
creations of its native grandeur, as "the 
changeless sea rolling the same in 
every age." 

Daniel Webster has done what no 
national poet has yet succeeded in do- 
ing — in associating his own great 
genius with all in our country's history 
and scenery, which makes us feel that 
we are Americans. He has made the 
forgotten past a living present. He 

cannot mention a name consecrated by 
self-devotion or patriotism, without 
doing it eloquent homage. 

The scene of the landing of Colum- 
bus, the orations at Bunker Hill, his 
eulogy on Adams and Jefferson, all 
compel our sympathies to follow his 
own. In reading them we feel proud 
of our country, and of the great men 
and just principles it has always cher- 

Mr. Webster was not only an elo- 
quent orator ; he was also a great ad- 
mirer of nature and the fine arts ; was 
conversant with history, both ancient 
and modern ; a profound philosopher, 
and an exceedingly moral man. 

An intelligent English traveller has 
recorded the following personal sketch 
of our orator: " The forehead of Mr. 
Webster is high, broad, and advan- 
cing. The cavity beneath the eyebrow 
is remarkably large. The eye is deeply 
set, but full, dark and penetrating in the 
highest degree ; the nose prominent 
and well defined ; the mouth marked 
by that rigid compression of the lips by 
which the New Englanders are dis- 
tinguished.. When Mr. Webster's 
countenance is in repose, its expression 
strikes me as cold and forbidding, but 
in conversation it lightens up, and 
when he smiles, the whole impression 
it communicates is at once changed. 
His voice is clear, sharp, and firm with- 
out much variety of modulation ; but 
when animated, it rings on the ear like 
a clarion." 

The name of Daniel Webster shall 
ever be held in the greatest honor and 
reverence as long as the English lan- 
guage is spoken ; and though dead, he 
still lives in his eloquence, his logic, 
and the numerous productions, which 
in his leisure moments fell from his 
pen. What he has said concerning 
Adams and Jefferson may with equal 
justice be repeated of himself: "His 
body is buried in peace, but his name 
liveth evermore." R. Rives. 




fAir from Mikado.] 

We're Spring Hill College team, 
Each one of us a star 

Radiant with diamond beam ; 
We hit and run and slide, 
We catch and woe betide 
The players of the other side 

There's our man in the box 

Who throws and watches bags 
As cunning as a fox. 

His curves are all zigzags. 
" Strike one, two, three, no doubt, 
Drop your bat, man, you're out ! " 
Cries the umpire as we shout. 

Our catcher's pluck well seems 

A feature of the game ; 
Go ask the city teams, 

They've learned to dread his name. 
There's no fly he can't catch, 
No foul that he can't snatch, 
Best runners he'll despatch. 

Our shortstop's cool and quick, 
His throw is lightning's flash, 

To liners he will stick 

Though red hot from the ash 

If e'er to short you bat, 

Sit down and have a chat, 

To run's a waste of fat. 


Our three knights of the bag, 

E'er ready to defend 
Their fortress, though a rag ; 

On them we may depend, 
They'll ne'er allow a foe 
To touch with hand or toe 
The bag, without a blow. 

Our fielders one and all 

With keen and faithful eyes, 

Can see and catch a ball 

Though dropping from the skies. 

Each one runs like a deer, 

And so we have no fear 

That they should miss the sphere. 


There're some who play for gain, 
To pass time others play ; 

We court the velvet plain 
For fame and not for pay. 

Last year we lost one game 

With all the clubs that came ; 

The championship we claim. 

'Tis said we will this year 

The wand'ring planet's course 
Lend to the covered sphere. 
And we'll do it of course, 
With hits all safe and long, 
We must win all along, 
And then we'll sing our song. 

College Team, 1890- '9 


My soul is fraught with melancholy, 

My body sick and faint, 
O give me back my college home, 

Then ceases my complaint. 
To wreck my shattered frame, 

They tore me from your bowers, 
Where peace and joy around me reigned 

As flew'the fruitful hours- 
O if 'twere left for me to say, 

From thee I ne'er would part, 
But in thy sicred classic walls 

To God resign my heart. 

P. Lackey, shortly before his death 




HE College of 
Spring Hill, or 
St. Joseph's Col- 
lege, is one of 
the oldest and 
best known in- 
stitutions of learning in 
the state, and beyond the 
state, in Louisiana, Mex- 
ico, the island of Cuba, 
and in Central and South 
America it is probably bet- 
ter known than any othei 
College in the United 

It is thus that Mr.Willis 
G. Clark begins to de- 
scribe Spring Hill in his 
report to the Bureau of 
Education at Washington, 
D. C. The College was 
founded in 1830 by Bish- 
op Portier of Mobile; was 
taken in charge for some 
years by the Eudists, and 
afterwards given to Fathers 
of the Society of Jesus. It was char- 
tered in 1836 with all the rights and 
privileges of a University, and four 
years later Pope Gregory XVI empow- 
ered it to "grant degrees in philosophy 
and theology. 

The principal buildings are four in 
number: the main building of brick, 
some three hundred and fifty feet long, 
and three stories high, facing south; 
the refectory; the infirmary; and the 

The main building, in which are 
quartered the students and the greater 
part of the faculty, is in three fire- 
proof divisions. The west portion is 
occupied by the seniors. On the ground 
floor is their study hall and most of the 
class rooms; on the second is the science 
hall and the room of the drawing class, 
and on* the third floor are the two dor- 

The centre part contains the faculty's 
rooms, the domestic chapel, the college 
library, the Fathers' recreation room 
and the museum — now but a shadow, as 
it were, of the famous collection that 
perished in the fire of 1869, yet con- 
taining some curious specimens, among 


others an ancient Turkish tombstone 
on which is carved in relief a quaint 
epitaph. The following is the transla- 
tion made by the Rev. Joseph Sayegh, 
S. J. : 

It is the Eternal 
Struck down by a premature death like a 

rose I have faded away in this world, 
(But) my memory will last and live for 

centuries to cowe. 
I read the Koran all night, incessantly at 

all times. 
May the Creator the Truth grant (me) to 

meet Him in the day of reckoning! 
For the soul of Zeliah Hanem, supplied 

with ifiercy and forgiveness. 

Daughter of the Lord Essaad Bey supplied 

with mercy (say) a Fatihaf 

In the year 1240 Ganez el sovel. 

Leaving the museum we pass to the 
Junior side, which with little change is 
occupied as the Senior part. 

A few minutes' walk from the Col- 
lege brings you to the foot of the hill 
where is situated the spring from which 
the College is named. This spring 
furnishes the water to a little lake in 



which the students enjoy refreshing 
baths during the warm season and ac- 
quire that skill in swimming for which 
they are distinguished. At the south 
side of this lake is the turbine which 
pumps water to a tower near the 
College, whence it is distributed 
through all the buildings. 

There are two courses of study, the 
Classical and the Commercial, about 
equally patronized. The annual at- 
tendance is about 140 scholars, varying 
in age from 10 to 23 years. The aver- 
age Spring-Hillian is robust, active 
and fond of exercise, yet withal, in- 
clined to be stout. The boys as a rule 
are remarkable for their application 
and, though with school boy failings, 
still distinguish themselves by their 
gentlemanly conduct, and in after life 
whatever may be their station, always 
look back with a feeling of reverence 
and honest pride to their Alma Mater, 
Their musical talent is considerable, 
their " Philharmonic Societies" being 
superior to those found in most insti- 

Spring Hill has sent into the world 

graduates now famous among the 
hierarchy, the clergy, the judiciary and 
in the Various walks of life. Well 
known are the names of Bishop 
Pellesier, Bishop Manucy, Paul Mor- 
phy, champion chess player of the 
world, N. H. R. Dawson, Edward 
Bermudez, Samuel McEnery and a 
score of others. 

In a few words, such is the modern 
Spring Hill differing in appearances 
from the ante-bellum institution, but 
precisely the same at bottom. Spring 
Hill, with the South, suffered by the 
war, still it carried on its work and 
kept abreast of well endowed state in- 
stitutions, owing to the superior moral 
and intellectual training it furnishes. 

In a quiet nook at the northern ex- 
tremity of the grounds there is a little 
cemetery where humble wooden crosses 
mark the graves of many well remem- 
bered by the old students. There rest 
the missionary, Father Sara, and the 
well-loved Father Yenni, who for 
more than half a century taught the 
rudiments of Latin and Greek to our 
fathers and to us. A. L. W. 


ARLY on the morning of the 
4th of February everybody I 
chanced to meet seemed to be 
in a hurry; a circumstance 
quite unusual in our slow town. 
As I was unable to explain the 
phenomenon I asked the first intelligent 
looking fellow I met what was the cause 
of the excitement. He looked aston- 
ished and said: "Why, sir, are you a 
resident of this place and do not know 
that to-day is to be tried the famous 
question whether the whole race of 
looking glasses should be banished or 
not?" After inquiring the hour that 
the trial was to come off, and rinding it 
near at hand, I walked toward the court 
house. When I arrived I found the hall 
packed. Poor and rich, young and old, 
were huddled together from all parts of 
the city, for each felt a personal interest 
in the case, and most probably all their 
sympathy was thrown in the balance of 
the accused. On a high platform sat 

the judge, a capable man, and judging 
from the taste displayed in his person, 
he seemed rather fond of his appearance. 
On either side sat the plaintiff and the 
defendant. A little to the right of the 
defendant stood the culprits nothing 
daunted, returning the gaze of every 
beholder, giving smile for smile and 
scorn for scorn. As the clock struck 
the hour the judge announced the case 
to commence. Neatness, the defendant, 
spoke first. His diction was chaste and 
concise; his delivery natural and forci- 
ble. He drew a lively picture of the 
ills that would follow from the banish- 
ment of this useful race. People, he 
said, would be seen in the gatherings of 
society with dishevelled hair. Men 
would meet each other with ill-shaven 
faces, or unkempt beard. Neckties 
would never know their proper places, 
and collars would lose the prestige of 
setting off the dress. " What ! must we 
part with those faithful friends who 



would enable us to see the slightest 
mishap that may befall our person; 
those never-tiring companions who 
would ever reflect a ruddy face when 
we are in health, and tell us when the 
slightest pallor chilled our cheeks," he 
concluded amidst a burst of applause. 
And the clients, proud of their patron 
showed as happy faces as ever 1 had 
seen. The judge himself was highly 
gratified, and with a benignant smile 
seemed to say to the plaintiff, " You 
never will make a good case against 
such useful members of society." 

But Vanity, the prosecutor, not 
the least disconcerted, arose and looked 
as if conscious that he could change 
this applause into hisses, those shouts 
of retaining into threats of rejecting- 
His stately bearing silenced the cheers 
that followed the former speaker and all 
lent an attentive ear to catch his slight- 
est word and gesture. The speaker, 
eager to obtain his end, forsook that 
glare of words in which I had seen him 
indulge on former occasions. "Time," he 
said, "is a gift whose value is very little 
known. It is a gem which if well em- 
ployed will procure for us health, pre- 
ferment and honor. It is a test given us 
by God to know whether we are worthy 
of eternal happiness or deserve eternal 
misery. Now those culprits are guilty 
of withdrawing hundreds and hundreds 
from their daily vocations in life. Boys 
especially, for hours and hours together 
are withheld by these from preparing 
lessons and seeking useful knowledge. 
Thus results an ill use of that irrepara- 
ble gift, and they are the cause of that 
pure loss of time. Did I say loss of 
time ? Would that it was only this. 
But loss of time is the least part of the 
misfortune. For what thoughts follow 
the long, long stare. Every unhappy in- 
dividual soon believes that he is good 
looking. The eyes, whatever color, 
shape or expression they might have 
when seen through the discolored me- 
dium of self-love become attractive. 
He admires the arch of his eyebrows, 
the curve of his mouth, his high fore- 
head, his nicely shaped nose. He puts 
the glass away convinced that he is a 
dashing young man. A second and a 
third view only confirms him in his first; 

opinion. He assumes a studied gait; 
he changes the natural expression of his 
face into a scowl to look more intelli- 
gent. Thus he journeys through life 
deceiving himself and despised by 
others. But, sir, lest I should be 
accused of wishing to practice the arts 
of rhetoric, let the facts speak for them- 
selves." He then opened a door and 
displayed such a vast number of wit- 
nesses that the audience gaped in aston- 
ishment, and the judge himself started at 
the sight. And of all the witnesses I have 
ever seen, these seemed to be actuated 
by the strongest passions. Each was 
anxious to testify to the cruel treatment 
he had received at the hands of the 
culprits. Amidst the confusion, I 
could only distinguish those who either 
on acccount of their number or strong 
voices rose above the uproar. Among 
them was the whole class of pimples, 
who solemnly swore they had been 
brought to an untimely end by the ac- 
cused. I also caught the cries of the 
hairs of the head, who bitterly com- 
plained of having been continually per- 
secuted by them. They said that at 
times they were obliged to stand as 
straight as bristles on the back of a 
fretful porcupine, and then would be 
dragged from their natural positions and 
expected to cover half the forehead. 
But the most violent accusers of this 
tribe were those that inhabited the up- 
per lip. Some of them had sad stories 
to tell how before they came to an age 
to be seen, they were pulled out from 
their homes and permitted to perish by 
the cold or heat. Others asserted that 
ever since they were noticeable they 
have never had a moment's rest. Still 
the most important of all the witnesses, 
though very few, were some young sui- 
cides who with a fearful oath swore 
that it was the first look into the mirror 
that drove them to that unhappy end. 

As the clamor increased every minute 
and the number swelled larger and 
larger, the judge fearing lest they 
should obtain a verdict of guilty, arose 
and after stating the difficulties of the 
case, said he must refer the matter to 
the Supreme Court. 

D. McGintv, Jr. 



REV. W. R. MILES, S. J. 

MONG the many students who 
have successfully passed 
through this College, and who 
in after life have gained for 
themselves an honorable name, 
we must not forget to mention 
Father W. R. Miles, S. J. For he 
has not only shed a halo of light around 
his own name, by his eloquence, his 
learning and his talent ; but he has also 
cast it upon the Society of Jesus, to 
which he belonged, and upon his Alma 
Mater, Spring Hill College. 

Father Miles was born in Jackson, 
Miss., on the 30th of June, 1848, being 
the oldest son of Gen. W. R. Miles, of 
Mississippi, who served with dis- 
tinction in the War of the Confederacy. 

After Father Miles had made a 
preliminary course of studies in his 
native town he entered Spring Hill, 
where he remained six years, when 
after mature deliberation he determined 
to cast his lot with his masters, and 
become a member of the Society of 
Jesus. He went to France, where, 
after his novitiate he completed his 
philosophy and scientific education. 

After his return to this country he 
was employed for several years teach- 
ing in New Orleans and Spring Hill 
and returned again to France for his 
theology, where he was ordained at 
Aix in Provence. 

Since his return to this country he 
was connected with the Church and 
College of the Immaculate Conception, 
New Orleans, and he remained there 
with the exception of one year, which 
he spent in England. It was during 
his trip to that country, while helping 
to give a mission at Manchester, that 
he attracted the public attention as an 
orator of no mean repute. 

Father Miles' sermons were looked 
upon as truly eloquent, and the English 
press at once proclaimed him as one of 
the foremost pulpit orators. Return- 
ing to New Orleans he resumed his 
duties at the College as professor of 
mathematics and physics, until he was 
appointed to the office of vice presi- 
dent, which position he held when 


death so suddenly snatched him away 
from amongst those by whom he was 
respected and loved. But we can 
scarcely realize that he is no more. It 
was only last summer that we saw him 
hale, hearty and strong, and full of 
life and vigor, making happy and joy- 
ous all with whom he came in contact. 
But, alas! death has no compassion 
either on the young, or the old, the 
rich or the poor, the learned or the 
ignorant. Fr. Miles died suddenly on 
Sunday, September 14th, 1890. He 
had preached that morning at high 
mass, and his death a few hours after- 
ward was an awful shock to those who 
had that very morning listened to his 
eloquent words. 

Father Miles was truly a gifted man, 
and a linguist of no little merit. He 
preached equally #s well in English, 
French and Spanish ; spoke Italian 
and Latin with the greatest fluency, 
and was a thorough Greek scholar. 
His services were also eagerly sought 
after as a missionary in all the 
churches of the city. Nay, not only by 
them, but his services were also eagerly 
sought after in distant cities, and it is 
not long ago he was called on to give 
a mission in the Citv of Mexico. The 



death of this priest was felt not only 
by all the Catholics that knew him, but 
also by his acquaintances of various 
religious denominations, and those 

especially who had been brought back 
to the true fold by his persuasive 
eloquence. R. I. I*. 

Karl Heusner. 


OW times have changed ! Such 
is the first thought that involun- 
tarily flashes through our mind 
on realizing the great and as- 
tonishing difference existing; be- 
tween the exhibitions of our day 
and one which I will attempt some- 
what to describe, that took place in 
Spring Kill just forty years ago. With 
the pleasant and long remembered va- 
cations of July and August and the 
College openings in September, it 
seemed strange and incredible to find 
in an old programme of '50 -'51 that 
the distribution of premiums, or as we 
now say, the annual commencement, 
will take place on the 12th of October. 
More wonderful still, with our ideas of 
an exhibition lasting only two or three 
hours, to find it continued for as many 
days. Yet "truth is stranger than fic- 
tion." The programme solemnly in- 
forms us that the exercises will begin 
at 9 o'clock on Saturday morning and 
continue with suitable intermissions 
until Tuesday evening, October the 
15th — Saturday, Monday and Tuesday. 
The programme fails to. acquaint us 
with what took place on the Sabbath, 
but we suppose some religious celebra- 
tion to vary the monotony of the exhi- 

On Saturday the visitors were treated 
to a Spanish play given in genuine 
Castilian "Scenes from Marcella by 
Breton de los Herreros," and we con- 
jecture that it afforded great pleasure 
to the audience, at least to those 
among them who understood it. There 
were also addresses on " Grecian Lit- 
erature," and "The Life of Augustus." 

Monday opened with three addresses: 
" Literature from Trajan to Justinian," 
" Middle Ages," and " Fourteenth 2nd 
Fifteenth Centuries." Then came a 
French play, in which many of the 

present leading men of New Orleans 
were the young and, no doubt, accom- 
plished actors. 

The third day began by two ad- 
dresses ; one in English on "Literature 
of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth 
Centuries," and the other in French, 
"Philosophic Ancienne." These were 
followed by an English play, after 
which the premiums were distributed. 

The programme says nothing about 
the musical part of the performance, 
but as the catalogue speaks of two 
classes of flute, one of piano, and one 
of violin, we may justly presume that 
the pupils failed not to give the enrap- 
tured audience a specimen of their 
musical skill. The spectators, no 
doubt were rewarded for their patience 
and consoled themselves with the 
thought that it might have been longer. 

Tradition does not inform us why 
these lengthy exhibitions were abol- 
ished and the present shorter ones sub- 
stituted, but we suppose that the truth 
of the maxim, "brevity is the soul of 
wit," gradually dawned on the minds 
of the faculty of succeeding years and 
they acted accordingly. 

A few words concerning those who 
took part in this commencement will 
not be amiss. Some are the leading 
stars and principal men of the cities 
wherein they reside respectively, an 
honor to their country and a source of 
pride to old Spring Hill, while others 
have long since departed "to that un- 
discovered country from whose bourne 
no traveller returns." 

Perhaps in future years our exhibi- 
tion will become a subject of comment 
to posterity , % 'and will afford pleasant 
reminiscences of the day when we, too, 
were students at college. 

James Armstrong. 




O-NIGHT the members of the 
Senior Literary Society gave 
their annual Christmas tide 
entertainment. It was pro- 
nounced by all a success. The 
following is the programme : 

Overture — Amorita Cibulka 

Willie's and Annie's prayer, reading 

R. Rives 

Duo, violin and piano . . . Rachenputzer 
Wolsey's Farewell, declamation .... 

W. Levis 

Gavotte Our Little Nestlings 



TFarce. j 

Scene I. — Street before a hotel. 

Quartette I Shall See Thee Again 

F. Killeen,W. Mulherin, C. Mulherin, 

J. Mulherin. 

Scene II. — A room in Dr. Galen's 


Finale Visions 



Ginger Blue J.Walsh 

Dr. Galen K. Heusner 

Captain Rifle . . . . F. Killeen 

Charles, an artist W. Kohn 

Edward, Dr. Galen's son . . W. Gassie 

O'Leary, a servant W. Levis 

Mr. Patent R. Rives 


Willie's and Annie's prayer was 
read with much sentiment and feeling, 
whilst the deep pathos and dignity 
with which Wolsey's Farewell was 
rendered, drew the attention and ap- 
plause of the audience. The young 
amateur promises to become a very 

good speaker and deserves great credit 
and encouragement. 

All those that took part in the farce 
did well ; but Masters Walsh and Levis 
are entitled to a special mention for 
the natural manner with which they 
respectively represented the negro and 
Irish characters. They kept the audi- 
ence in a roar of laughter during the 
entire performance. Ginger Blue put- 
ting his head out of the sarcophagus and 
Mr. O'Leary cutting off the mummy's 
toe were unsurpassable. The profes- 
sional step, too, of the schoolmaster, 
his most natural fall, and his blank 
amazement at rinding himself most 
unceremoniously and unexpectedly 
knocked over his huge book, literally 
brought down the house. 

What shall we 


of the ''music 

that exalts each joy, allays each grief, 
expels all gloom, softens every pain?" 
It was delightful from the overture to 
the finale. The orchestra under Pro- 
fessors A. J. Staub and J. Bloch 
seemed to surpass itself; and the 
greater is the merit of its members, as 
a glance at the programme will show 
that the choice selections, which they 
executed, were rather difficult. The 
quartette, especially, met with great 
applause. One of the audience, who 
is a musician himself, and has been 
present at many an entertainment in 
the college hall, was afterwards heard 
to remark, that the clarinet part owing 
to the taste, feeling, and expression 
with which it was played, afforded him 
intense pleasure. 

The lovers of the dramatic and 

musical arts congratulate the young 

actors and musicians and tender them 

their heartfelt wishes of future success. 

C. P. Mulherin. 

it |ip mi 






LA short sketch of his life.] 


DMUND BURKE, the great 
writer, statesman and orator, 
was born at Dublin, on the ist 
of January, 1730, of respecta- 
ble parents. 

At the age of eleven he was 
sent to a school under the care of a 
Quaker named Thackleton, where he 
learned that simplicity and frankness, 
that bold assertion of moral principle, 
that reverence for the word of God, 
and the habit of going freely to its 
pages for imagery and illustrations, for 
which he was so much distinguished. 
Here, also, he formed those habits 
of industry and perseverance which 
were the most striking traits of his 
character, and are so aptly embodied 
in the motto of his life: " Nitor in 

As young Burke was of a delicate 
constitution, he was unable to join in 
the usual school sports and was led to 
find enjoyment in reading and thought, 
which made his memory a vast store- 
house of facts and illustrations. 

Three years after he became a 
member of Trinity College, Dublin. 
During the six years he remained in 
this institution he was too desultory to 
excel in the studies of the place. He 
had occasional fits of application to 
mathematics and logic, and was 
awarded a scholarship in classics ; but 
he did not carry off the honors in any 
one department. Leland, the transla- 
tor of Demosthenes, speaking of Burke, 
informs us, that at this time he was 
known as a young man of superior 
but unpretending talents, and more 
anxious to acquire knowledge than 
to display it. He mastered most of 
the great writers of antiquity. He 
delighted in Plutarch, was peculiarly 
fond of Virgil, Horace and Lucretius. 
Demosthenes, however, was his favor- 
ite author ; though in after life he 
formed himself on the model of Cicero. 
In English he read the essays of Lord 
Bacon again and again. Shakespeare 
was his daily study ; but his greatest 
reverence was reserved for Milton, 
whose richness of language, boundless 

learning, and scriptural grandeur of 
conception, were the first and last 
themes of his applause. At the age 
of twenty he entered upon the study of 
law, but soon gave it up to devote 
himself to the pursuit of philosophy 
and literature. 

In 1756 appeared his first literary 
productions : " A Vindication of Natu- 
ral Society," and his essay on " The 
Sublime and Beautiful." The works 
excited a general and lively interest, 
and the most distinguished men sought 
his acquaintance. Johnson says of 
him at this time : " Burke is an extra- 
ordinary man. His stream of talk is 
perpetual, and he does not talk from 
any desire of distinction, but because 
his mind is full." After further 
acquaintance, he added: "He is the 
only man whose common conversation 
corresponds with the general fame 
which he has in the world ; indeed, no 
man of sense could meet him by acci- 
dent under a gateway to avoid a 
shower, without being convinced that 
he was the first man in England." 

A striking confirmation of this re- 
mark occurred some years after when 
Burke was passing through Lichfield, 
the birthplace of Johnson. Wishing 
to see the Cathedral during the change 
of horses, he stepped into the building 
and was met by one of the clergy of 
the place, w r ho* kindly offered to point 
out the principal objects of curiosity. 
A conversation ensued, and in a few 
moments the clergyman's pride of 
local information was completely sub- 
dued by the copious and minute infor- 
mation displayed by the stranger. 
Whatever topic the object before them 
suggested, whether the theme was 
antiquities or architecture, some ob- 
scure passage in ecclesiastical history, 
or some question respecting the life of 
a saint, he touched it as with a sun- 

A few minutes after their separation 
the clergyman was met hurrying 
through the street. "I have had," 
said he, "quite an adventure. I have 
been conversing for the last half hour 



with a man of the most extraordinary 
powers of mind and extent of informa- 
tion it has ever been my lot to meet. 
I am now going to the inn to ascertain, 
if possible, who the stranger is." 

In the year 1757 he married the 
daughter of Dr. Nugent, of Bath, and 
took literature as his profession. In 
1758 he projected the Annual Register, 
a work of great utility, which is con- 
tinued in the House of Parliament to 
this day. In 1761 he became private 
secretary to William Hamilton, com- 
monly called single- speech Hamilton. 
In 1765, however, he permanently en- 
tered on the duties of public life as 
private adviser to Lord Rockingham, 
with a seat in parliament and the office 
of private secretary. 

As Mr. Burke grew old he became 
irritable, and several times gave vent to 
outbursts of passion in the House, 
which gradually began to tell against 
his reputation. The following instance 
is told by George Selwyn: On one 
occasion as Mr. Burke rose to speak, 
w th a paper in his hand, a country 
member exclaimed: "I hope the gentle- 
man does not mean to read that large 
bundle of papers and bore us with a 
speech in the bargain." Mr. Burke 
was so overcome with rage that he was 
incapable of utterance, a° d rushed at 
once out of the House. "Never be- 
fore," adds Selwyn, "did I see the fable 
realized of a lion put to flight by the 
braying of an ass." One ot the most 
painful events of Mr. Rurke's life was 
the separ-ition from Mr. Fox. 

He had declared before the House 
that he would abandon his best friends 
and join with his worst enemies to 
oppose French principles. A short 
while after Mr. Fox went out of his way 
in a debate to praise the new constitu- 
tion of France. "I, for one," he said, 
" admire the new constitution as the 
most glorious fabric ever raised by 
human integrity since the creation of 
man." Though deeply hurt Mr. Burke 
reserved the expression of his feel- 
ings for another occasion. This soon 
occurred. In a debate on the Canadi 
Bill, Mr. Burke touched on the French 
revolution. Instantly a friend of Fox 
called him to order, and Fox himself 

made some very severe and bitter 
remarks on the speaker. 

Mr. Burke now arose. " It is an in- 
discretion," he said, " at any time to 
provoke enemies or to give friends 
occasion to desert one ; yet, if my 
adherence to the British constitution 
places me in the dilemma, I will risk 
all. Here Mr Fox whispered, "There 
is no loss of friends." Mr. Burke 
replied emphatically : "Yes, there is 
loss of friends. I know the price of 
my conduct. I have done my duty at 
the price of my friend. Our friendship 
is at an end " The breach was irrepa- 
rable. Even on his death bed he 
refused to see Mr. Fox. 

But a still greater afflicticn was the 
death of his son, who was an only child 
and the centre of his father's hopes. 
These, however, were doomed to dis- 
appointment, for in 1794 his son was 
taken away by an untimely death. Mr. 
Burke thus adverts to the loss in his 
celebrated letter to a noble lord: "A 
storm has gone over me, and I lie like 
one of those old oaks which the late 
hurricane has scattered around me. I 
am stripped of all my honors ; I am 
torn up by the roots. I lie prostrate on 
the earth, and prostrate there I most 
unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, 
and in some degree submit to it. I am 
alone ; I have none to meet my enemies 
at the gate." 

In 1797, finding his health rapidly 
declining, he went to Bath to try the 
effect of its waters; but they were of 
little avail. So he returned to his 
county seat at Beaconsfield, where, on 
the 9th of March, 1797, in the sixty- 
eighth year of his age, he calmly expired 
in the full possession of his senses. 

Karl Heusner. 


"Burke," says DeQuincy, "is the 
supreme writer of his century," and 
Morley adds with equal force, " that 
Burke is among the greatest of those 
who have wrought marvels in the 
prose of our English tongue." It 
appears from the praise of these and 
many other able critics, that the 
writings of Burke abound in manifold 



and superior excellencies. The first 
of these was an anonymous publica- 
tion, entitled "A Vindication of Natu- 
ral Society." It was so admirable an 
imitation of the style and thought of 
Bolingbroke that many were deceived 
by it. It was ironical throughout and 
intended to prove that the same argu- 
ments with which that infidel writer 
had attacked all revealed religion, 
might be applied with equal force 
against all civil and political institu- 
tions whatsoever. 

Shortly after his " Essay on the 
Sublime and Beautiful" was pub- 
lished. Its eloquence of language, 
and its spirit of philosophical investi- 
gation, placed him at once in the very 
first class of writers on taste and 
criticism. His object is to show that 
terror is the principal source of the 
Sublime, and that the domain of 
Beauty is grace, delicacy and affection 

There are in this Essay many para- 
doxical ideas ; but in no other work 
of the kind can we find distinctions so 
nice, observations more just, nor a 
style more elegant. His speeches and 
pamphlets on the "French Revolu- 
tion," and especially his incomparable 
work, entitled " Reflections on the 
Revolution in France," are perhaps as 
wonderful for their sagacity, their 
penetration and predictive power, as 
they are admirable for the splendid 
eloquence of their expression. His 
last production, "Letters on a Regi- 
cide Peace," published a few months 
before his death, is distinguished by 
his usual fervid eloquence, profound 
wisdom, and far-seeing sagacity. The 
writings of Burke are indeed the only 
political writings of a past age, that 
continue to be read with interest in 
the present ; and they are now, per- 
haps, better appreciated, and more 
diligently studied, both for oratorical 
and philosophical worth, than when 
first written. 

His diction was as varied as the 
matter. Whatever the subject, he had 
always at command expressions at 
once appropriate and beautiful. He 
could employ with equal power all the 
elements of our copious language ; 
combining all the eloquence and rich- 

ness of the classical diction, with all 
the nerve and energy of our Saxon 
vernacular. For lofty and dignified 
sentiment he had at command all the 
magnificence of the former, whilst to 
give point to sarcasm and ridicule, he 
brought to bear the full powers of the 
latter. While his copious flow of 
words remain unrivalled, grave faults 
occur in the construction of his sen- 
tences. Many such awkward forma- 
tions are found in his " Essay on the 
Sublime and Beautiful," and occa- 
sionally in his later works. This 
fault, however, is redeemed by his 
profusion of figurative language which 
is the theme of endless admiration. 
He is especially rich in tropes and has 
been called the greatest master of the 
metaphor that the world has ever 
known. One of the greatest qualities 
of his style is perspicuity ; though it is 
not so discernable in his later as in his 
earlier works. But strength is the 
most prominent feature of his style-. 
His peculiar mode is difficult to ex- 
press, still we may say that it resem- 
bles Macaulay's, although possessing 
greater body and less rapidity and 
point. * 

Burke is also said to excel in pathos ; 
but if tranquility and composure be 
regarded as part of its essence, very 
little pathos can be found in his pub- 
lished works. It was inconsistent with 
•his nature. An excitable man of un- 
governable sensibility, he was ever 
prone to run into wild extravagances. 
His well-known allusion to Marie 
Antoinette is very touching, but the 
emotion is more keen than pathos, and 
soon passes into fiery indignation. He 
was more remarkable, however, for 
his abundant use of the weapon of 
ridicule. In his earlier publications 
he had recourse chiefly to dignified 
irony, which, besides showing great 
wit, is always pleasing and attractive. 
But in his later writings he made use 
of extremely bitter and personal invec- 
tive, and does not scruple to descend 
to the most grossly offensive com- 
parisons. In fact, when carried away 
by his own vehemence, he frequently 
offended against good taste. His com- 
parisons of Hastings to a sow and the 
Duke of Bedford to a ivhalc, are sur- 



passed only by the scolding of the 

As taste, however, is certainly not 
the special virtue of English literature, 
and when there is hardly one of our 
great masters of prose who does not 
offend in this particular, Burke may 
stand excused, and such occasional 
infractions of taste should not detract 
from his just fame as "the supreme 
writer of his century." 

H. Sheppard. 


Burke was also an eminent states- 
man. As Mr. Schlegel says, he 
was to his country and all Europe, a 
new light of political wisdom and 
moral experience. In his mind the 
science of politics and government was 
the science of man, and not a mere 
system of arbitrary regulation or a 
mere matter of crookedness and in- 
trigue. It was the outcome of intimate 
and profound knowledge of the princi- 
ples, feelings, and even prejudices, 
which bind a people together in one 
community. He fought nobly for 
noble causes: against the crimes of 
power in England, the crimes of 
monopolists in India, and the crimes 
of the people in France. Hence, the 
political career of Mr. Burke naturally, 
divides itself into three distinct periods, 
corresponding to the three great sub- 
jects, America, India and France, which 
successively occupied the anxieties and 
labors of his life. 

The first was on the whole the hap- 
piest and most successful. He had 
always been deeply interested in the 
early history of the British Colonies, 
and by his habits of thought he was 
naturally led to see in the character of 
their institutions the spirit of their 
ancestors, and to follow out that same 
spirit in the enterprise, perseverance 
and indomitable love of liberty, which 
animated the whole body of the people. 
He saw, too, the boundless resources 
of the country, and the irrepressible 
power it must soon attain. Thus, 
when the trouble came on, and when 
there was hardly a man in England, 

except Lord Chatham, who had the 
least conception of the strength and 
firmness of the colonies, Burke alone 
was prepared to step forward with 
those rich stores of knowledge, and 
those fine trains of reasoning, con- 
ceived in the truest spirit of phi- 
losophy, which astonished and de- 
lighted, though they failed to convince 
the parliament of Great Britain. 

Indeed, the speeches on American 
affairs were among Mr. Burke's most 
vigorous and felicitous, but his most 
important duty was the part he took in 
the prosecution of Warren Hastings, 
and his opposition to the regency bill 
of Mr. Pitt. Like a true statesman he 
studied the subject with his usual 
assiduity, and acquired a knowledge 
of India such as few, even of those 
Europeans who had passed many years 
in that country, had ever attained, and 
such as certainly was never attained by 
any public man who had not quitted 
Europe. He had studied the history, 
the laws, and the usages of the East 
with an industry such as is seldom 
found united to so much genius. India 
and its inhabitants were not to him as 
to most Englishmen, mere names and 
abstractions, but a real country and a 
real people. Oppression in Bengal 
was to him the same as oppression in 
the streets of London. We can im- 
agine, then, what must have been the 
fierceness of his indignation, as the 
long list of crimes, extortions and 
cruelties, practiced by Hastings and 
his minions against the natives, rose 
one by one in his view. He did not 
succeed, it is true, in the famous trial 
instituted against Hastings, still, the 
long years of devoted labor in the 
cause of justice were not entirely in 
vain. The attention of the English 
people was drawn to the wretched 
condition of India. They began to 
see it in its true light, and a deep 
sense spread among them that such 
enormities must be brought to an end. 
As soon as the politicians took note of 
these new dispositions of the people, 
they saw that something had to be 
done, and immediately set themselves 
to devise some remedies for the evils 
under which the East was groaning. 
This was all that was needed. Soon 



the burden of the English yoke grew 
light, and India put on a new face. 
Where a short time before gloom, 
wretchedness and starvation reigned, 
now brightness and merriment and 
plenty abounded. Order took the place 
of disorder ; the lives and the property 
of the natives became as secure as 
those of their masters, arid crimes that 
before could be committed with im- 
punity, were now followed by instant 
and impartial punishment. And all 
this was due to the exertions of Mr. 
Burke. The lessons of political wis- 
dom he had spent so many years in 
teaching, at last were learned and 
brought forth the fruit he intended. 
Surely, India owes him a nobler crown 
than the one for which Demosthenes 

France and its portentous revolu- 
tion occupied the third stage of Mr. 
Burke's political career, and called 
forth the most brilliant efforts of his 
genius. When the revolution broke 
out his sagacity enabled him to foresee 
the dreadful consequences which it 
would entail upon France and the 
world, and his enthusiastic tempera- 
ment led him to state his impressions 
in language sometimes overcharged, 
generally full of prophetic instinct, 
and always with an energy and 
exuberance of fancy in which, among 
philosophical politicians, he was un- 

Burke was eminently practical in all 
his views. His greatest efforts will be 
found directed to the redress of some 
existing wrong, or the preservation of 
some existing good ; to hatred of actual 
oppression, to the removal of useless re- 
strictions, and to the calm and sober im- 
provement of the laws and government. 
He looked upon a subject like a man 
standing on an eminence, taking a 
large and rounded view of it on every 
side. There was no subject on which 
he had not read ; no system relating 
to the interest of man as a social being 
which he had not thoroughly explored. 
"He possessed," says Coleridge, "and 
had sedulously sharpened that eye 
which sees all things, actions and 
events, in relation to the laws which 
determine their existence and circum- 
scribe their possibility. He referred 

habitually to principles; in a word, he 
was a scientific statesman." 

J. McGrath. 


The speeches of* Edmund Burke 
may be considered under a double 
aspect, as spoken addresses and as 
written compositions. Hence arises 
among critics a diversity of opinion as 
to the merits of Mr. Burke as an 

Those who consider them under the 
first aspect, deny him a place among 
the very first masters of eloquence, 
and ground their decision on the fol- 
lowing reasons : The professed object 
of oratory, they say, is to bring about 
conviction and persuasion. Now Mr. 
Burke's eloquence was not adapted to 
this end. He failed to appeal to prin- 
ciples of action. He did not confine 
himself to the orator's chief purpose, 
namely, to guide his audience to a 
particular resolution, but allowed his 
reason to wander away from the sim- 
ple business-like view of the subject 
under consideration. He made bound- 
less excursions into the region of 
moral and political philosophy, and 
perpetually traced up particular in- 
stances and subordinate principles to 
profound and comprehensive maxims. 
Besides, his exuberance of fancy was 
equally in the way. For when an 
orator indulges in very lengthened and 
elaborate imagery as Mr. Burke did, a 
suspicion is sure to be engendered in 
the minds of the audience that he is 
scarcely in earnest. That if he has 
an object it is to commend his own 
eloquence rather than to produce con- 
viction. It was this that made Mr. 
Hazlettsay: "Most of his speeches 
have a sort or parliamentary preamble 
to them. There is an air of affected 
modesty and ostentatious trifling in 
them ; "he seems fond of coquetting 
with the House of Commons, and is 
perpetually calling the speaker out to 
dance a minuet with him before he 

Another obstacle they add to his 

- success as an orator was his personal 

appearance and delivery. He was tall 



and ungainly ; his gait and gesture 
were awkward ; his countenance was 
destitute of softness and rarely relaxed 
into a smile ; and as he always wore 
spectacles his eye gave him no com- 
mand over an audience. 

On the other hand, those who view 
his speeches as written compositions, 
rank him with Demosthenes, Cicero, 
and the greatest modern orators. 
That this is no exaggeration will 
appear from a cursory view of his three 
best speeches. The one on American 
taxation first claims our attention. 
It would be difficult to find any 
oration, ancient or modern, in which 
the matter is more admirably arranged. 
The several parts support each other 
and the whole forms a complete 
system of thought. Even the sketches 
of Granville, Townsend and Chatham, 
which may appear to be excrescences, 
strictly form a part of the argument. 
It is at once full of deep research, 
cogent reasoning, cutting sarcasm, 
graphic description, profound political 
reasoning, and fervid declamation. 
The style is racy and pungent. It is 
nowhere so polished as to lose its 

The next that presents itself is the 
speech on Conciliation with America. 
It is remarkable for the felicitous 
selection of its topics, the lucid order 
in which they are arranged, their close 
connection, the ease with which one 
thought grows out of another in regu- 
lar and progressive series, and the 
tendency of the whole to a single 
point, with all the force and complete- 
ness of a moral demonstration. There 
are more passages in this than in any 
other of Burke's speeches which have 
been admired and quoted for the rich- 
ness of the imagery, and the force and 
beauty of the description. The lan- 
guage is evidently elaborated with 
great care, and Sir James Mcintosh 

pronounced it "the most faultless of 
Mr. Burke's productions." 

Nabob of Arcot's Debt is the third 
of Mr. Burke's great speeches. It is 
the most remarkable speech in our 
language for its triumph over the 
difficulties of the subject ; for the union 
of brilliancy and force, of comprehen- 
sive survey, and minute detail, of 
vivid description and impassioned elo- 
quence. It does not, however, con- 
tain as much philosophy or profound 
research as some of Burke's earliest 
speeches, nor is it faultless in style, 
though it is generally distinguished by 
an elastic energy of expression admira- 
bly suited to the subject. Still there 
are passages which mark a transition 
into greater profusion of imagery on 
the one hand and greater coarseness 
of language on the other, arising from 
the excited state of Burke's mind. 
Never had his feelings been so com- 
pletely roused. In none of his speeches 
do we find so much cutting sarcasm ; 
in none has he poured out his whole 
soul in more fervid declamation. His 
description of Hyder Ali sweeping 
over the Carnatic with fire and sword 
is the most eloquent passage which he 
ever produced. Lord Brougham pro- 
nounced it by far the first of Burke's 

In conclusion, we may say few 
speeches, ancient or modern, abound 
in so many original combinations of 
inventive genius, in so much knowledge 
of men, and the working of political 
systems, in so many just remarks on 
the relation of government to the man- 
ners, the spirit, and prejudices of the 
people, in so many wise maxims as to 
a change in the constitution and laws, 
in so many beautiful effusions of lofty 
and generous sentiment, such exuber- 
ant stores of illustration, ornament 
and apt allusion, all intermingled with 
the liveliest sallies of wit or the boldest 
flight of a sublime imagination. 

Jas. O. West. 






Felloiv Students; 

In the following verses we have endeavored to render the spirit as well as 
the words of Homer. We know that we have often failed in our aim ; yet 
when you call to mind, that besides many other advantages, the Greek hexame- 
ter numbers six, seven and even eight syllables more than our English pentameter, 
you must readily cast aside the critic's frown and smile with encouragement 
upon our youthful and rather bold attempt. 

The Rhetoricians. 


THROUGHOUT the town like hunted fawns they fled, 

Then cooled their sweat and drank and slaked their thirst, 
Leaning against the bulwarks fair. The Greeks, 
Meanw r hile, with shield to shoulders set, drew near, 

But deadly Fate bound Hector there to stand, 5 

Outside of Troy, before the Scaean gates. 

Then to Achilles thus Apollo spake : 

" Why Peleus' son with flying feet pursue 

A deathless god, thyself a mortal man? 

'Gainst me, a god unknown, thou ravest e'er 10 

Reckless of Trojan's rout, who safely now 

The walls have gained, w r hilst thou hast hither strayed 

In vain, immortal me thou ne'er shall slay." 

Then roused Achilles swift of foot replied : 

"Far darter! thou hast baulked me, cruellest god ; 15 

And lured me from the town. Full many else 

Had bit the dust before the gates they reached. 

Great glory now from me hast snatched, and them 

Hast readily saved ; for vengeance none dost dread. 

Revenged I'd be, possessed I but the power." 20 

Then towards the wall with great intent he hied. 

On! on! like some victorious chariot-steed, 

That prancing, speedeth lightly o'er the plain. 

His vigorous limbs thus swift Achilles plied. 


IM now the aged Priam first beheld * 25 

Scouring the plain, resplendent like the star 
That riseth in the fall. Its glittering rays 
Gleam brightly midst the lights at dead of night. 

This star men call Orion's dog by name. 

Though brightest far, a baleful sign it sets 30 

And bringeth fever's curse on hapless men. 

So gleamed the brass upon Achilles' breast. 


Loud cried the aged sire, with hands upraised 

His head he smote, and mourning cried aloud ; 

Beseeching his dear son, for still before the gates 35 

He stood, intent Achilles to engage. 

Him Priam thus with outstretched hands implored : 

" O, Hector dear, await not, pray, this man 

Alone, lest thou to fate a victim swiftly yield, 

O'ercome by Peleus* son, thy better far. 40 

The cursed one! would that the gods loved him 

As I ; then soon should dogs and vultures tear 

His lifeless corpse, and anguish leave my heart. 

The knave ! he robbed me of my valiant sons, 

Whom he hath slain or sold in distant isles. az 

E'en now my eyes find not within the walls 

Brave Polydorus and Lycaon, my sons 

By fair Laothoe, the peerless queen. 

If mid the foe they live, we'll ransom them 

With bronze and gold from our abundant stores, 50 

The wealth untold, famed Altes gave his child. 

But if now slain, in Hades' realms they dwell, 

A pang will pierce their mother's heart and mine. 

But on the people a briefer grief shall press, 

Should thou not die by fell Achilles' hand. cc 

So gain the walls, my son, and thence defend 

The Trojan's all ; nor thus bereft of life 

To Peleus' son undying glory give. 

Do pity me a hapless, hopeless wretch 

Whom aged, doomed to death, Saturnian Jove 60 

Will cruelly smite beholding countless woes, 

Sons foully slain and daughters captive dragged, 

My bridal rooms laid waste, my infant sons 

Dashed 'gainst the marble floors in dire war, 

My sons' wives torn away by Grecian hands. 65 

Me haply, last of all, how ravening dogs 

Will tear before the gates, when some fierce foe 

With sword or lance bereaves my limbs of life; 

The very dogs, I fed to guard my door, 

Will greedily lap my blood and maddened lie 70 

Upon the porch. To one in bloom of youth 

All wounds an honor prove, the sword's deep cut, 

The spear's long gash, the mangled corse itself. 

But when dogs foully tear the silver hair, 

The beard, and naked limbs of an aged slain, 75 

The direst lot on hapless men hath fallen." 

So spake the sire, and with both hands tore out 

His silver hair. Still Hector stood unmoved. 

His weeping mother then in turn implored. 

She loosed her robe, and pointing to her breast, 80 

To him these winged words mid tears she spake: 

" O, Hector! son, gaze here and pity me, 

If e'er my soothing breast to thee I gave, 

Remember it, my child. Safe in the walls 

Ward off this dreadful man, wait not without. 85 

The ruthless one,' if he thee slay, not on N 

Thy bier shall I or thy much-dowered wife 

Bewail thee, dearest son, but far away 

By Argive's ships swift dogs will tear thy limbs." 



5\HUS they implored with wailing their clear son, 90 

* Beseeching sore ; still Hector stood unmoved, 
Awaiting great Achilles drawing near; 
As some fell mountain snake awaits a man, 

With deadly poison armed and filled with rage, 

He coils about his den and hideous glares. ox 

So Hector armed with courage dauntless stood, 

His bright shield 'gainst a jutting tower he laid, 

And deeply moved, his great heart thus addressed : 

"Ah, me! if now behind the walls I skulk 

Polydamus will sting me with reproach. 100 

He bade me draw the troops within the town 

That fatal night when great Achilles rose; 

I heeded not his words. Ah, woe is me! 

For since my pride the people hath destroyed, 

I fear the men and long-robed dames of Troy. 105 

I dread lest some mean wretch may say: " Hector, 

Confiding in his strength, the people slew." 

Such taunts I cannot brook. Far better then 

Achilles slain, triumphant to return, 

Or for my country fall in glorious fight. 1 10 

Again, suppose I lay against the wall 

My bossy shield, my helm and bronze-tipped spear, 

And haste me then to meet Achilles brave; 

Why not to Atrens' son the promise give, 

Fair Helen to restore, the cause of war, 1 15 

And all the wealth that Paris brought to Troy 

In hollow ships ; besides, to yield the Greeks 

The hidden stores this city hoards; yet more, 

The Trojan host, by solemn oath to pledge 

Naught to conceal, but fairly to produce 120 

Whatever wealth our much-loved city holds ; 

But why my soul, these empty hopes indulge? 

If thus before him, suppliant I stand, 

He will but scorn and mock my prayers and slay 

Me straightway like a helpless girl, unarmed. 125 

This is no time to hold sweet converse now, 

Like youth and maid behind a screening oak 

Or rock, whose eyes and lips their love unfold. 

No ! now we must engage and learn at once 

To whom Olympian Jove the victory gives. 130 


fONDERING he stood. But near Achilles drew, 
r, Like unto Mars, the crested warrior god, 
He wielded o'er his right the Pelean ash," 
The dreadful lance. Bright flashed the mail afar 

Like flaming brands or like the rising sun. 135 

At sight of him a tremor Hector seized, 

Daunted he fled and left the gates behind; 

Achilles, trusting his swift feet, pursued. 

The falcon oft, most fleet of mountain hawks, 

With fell swoop darts upon a timorous dove ; 140 


Sidelong she flits ; but swift he wheels about 

And screaming springs amain to seize his prey. 

So rushed Achilles on, while Hector fled 

Beneath the walls along the chariot course, 

On, 'neath the walls and plied his vigorous limbs, 145 

The wind-tossed fig tree past and prospect tower 

They sped ; on, on to the fair flowing springs 

The sources twain of Xanthus' winding streams, 

Tepid flows the one, whilst round in clouds 

As from a blazing fire the smoke ascends. 150 

The other, e'en in summer's parching heat, 

Runs cold as hail, or snow, or crystal ice. 

Stone basins hard by stand, well-wrought and broad, 

In which the wives and daughters fair of Troy 

Their beauteous garments washed in time of peace ; 155 

Ere yet a Grecian foot their shores had touched ; 

By these they ran ; one fled and one pursued. 

A brave one fled, a braver far pursued ; 

Not for a victim lamb or ox, not for 

Such vulgar prize of speed, strove they, 160 

No! for horse taming Hector's life they raced. 


S when two firm-paced steeds victorious sweep, 
Around the goal with richest prize in sight, 
A Tripod or a maid in honor of 
Some hero slain; so thrice round Priam's town 165 

They swiftly flew, while all the Gods looked on. 

At last the sire of gods and men began: 

" What grievous sight! a man I love in flight 

Around the wall ; my heart for Hector bleeds. 

How oft fat victim's thighs to me he burned, 170 

Upon the crests of Ida many-valed 

Or lofty Troy.. But now with swift feet, see ! 

Round Priam's town Achilles drives him on. 

Come, then, consult ye gods, and then advise 

What best you deem a valiant soul to spare 175 

Or yield him up, Achilles' wrath to glut." 

Then thus the blue-eyed goddess Pallas spake : 

"O, Father! god of lightning and dark clouds 

What hast thou said ! a man long doomed to fate, 

Back from ill-boding death wouldst thou redeem ? 180 

Do as thou wilt; but we will ne'er approve." 

To her cloud-gathering Zeus in answer spoke : . 

"Be of good cheer, Tritonia-born, fond child, 

How prove unkind to thee? I did but jest. 

So brooking no restraint, indulge thy wish." 185 


fSjlHESE words Minerva's previous plans confirmed, 
,;HKL And from Olympus' crests she hastened down. 
Meanwhile Achilles sorely pressed his foe, 
As when a hound pursues a mountain fawn, 
Roused from its lair it flies through brake and glen 190 



Or trembling hides beneath the screening copse, 

Tracing the scent the hound starts it anew. 

So Hector baffled not Achilles swift. 

Full oft he sprang toward the Dardan gates 

And strong built towers, that haply from above 195 

His friends protecting darts might hurl. As oft 

Achilles drove him thwarted to the plain. 

So still before the walls he onwards sped. 

And as in dreams, in vain we give pursuit, 

In vain we strive to fly, so vainly swift 200 

Achilles chased so vainly Hector fled. 

How should brave Hector then his fate escape, 

Had not Apollo, in his utmost need, 

Brought help and given his vigorous limbs new strength. 

Then great Achilles beckoned to his host 205 

No fatal dart 'gainst Hector's form to hurl, 

That he alone might all the glory claim. 

When they the fourth time reached fair Xanthus' springs, 

Great father Jove his golden scales upraised, 

On them two lots of lasting death he laid, 210 

For great Achilles one, for Hector one, 

And poised them. Lo ! down Hector's yielding fate 

To Hades sank. Him Phoebus then forsook, 

To Peleus' son the blue-eyed goddess flew, 

And standing nigh, these winged words addressed: 215 

"Achilles! dear to Jove ! I trust we shall 

At length unto the ships great glory bear, 

Brave Hector slain, though thirsting for the fray. 

Foil us he cannot now, e'en though in prayer 

Far-darting Phoebus self should prostrate fall 220 

Before the feet of Aegis-bearing Jove. 

So rest thee now and take thy breath whilst I 

Haste to persuade him meet thee face to face." 

Thus Pallas spake ; he glad at heart complied ; 

Standing he leaned upon his ashen spear. 225 

Then leaving him, she Hector sought, the voice 

And form, assuming of Deiphobus. 

And standing near, these winged words addressed : 

"Brother! Achilles round our fathers' town 

With flying feet now sorely presses thee. 230 

But stand we here, his onset to await." 

In turn great Hector of the glancing helm : 

" Deiphobus, of all fair Hecuba's 

And Priam's sons, the dearest e'er wert thou, 4 

But now more ardent glows my love, since thou 235 

Alone hast bravely dared to succor me 

While others skulk behind the city walls." 

To him the blue-eyed goddess thus replied : 

" Brother, our sire and honored mother both 

Have clasped my knees and begged me stay within, 240 

So did our comrades all ; such is their dread. 

Still in my inmost soul I felt for thee. 

Come, fearless fight we now, spare not thy spear, 

But prove at once, if now Achilles fierce 

Shall slay us both and bear our bloody spoils 245 

Away, or fall himself by thy strong spear." 


Or trembling hides beneath the screening copse, 

Tracing the scent the hound starts it anew. 

So Hector baffled not Achilles swift. 

Full oft he sprang toward the Dardan gates 

And strong built towers, that haply from above 195 

His friends protecting darts might hurl. As oft 

Achilles drove him thwarted to the plain. 

So still before the walls he onwards sped. 

And as in dreams, in vain we give pursuit, 

In vain we strive to fly, so vainly swift 200 

Achilles chased so vainly Hector fled. 

How should brave Hector then his fate escape, 

Had not Apollo, in his utmost need, 

Brought help and given his vigorous limbs new strength. 

Then great Achilles beckoned to his host 205 

No fatal dart 'gainst Hector's form to hurl, 

That he alone might all the glory claim. 

When they the fourth time reached fair Xanthus' springs, 

Great father Jove his golden scales upraised, 

On them two lots of lasting death he laid, 210 

For great Achilles one, for Hector one, 

And poised them. Lo ! down Hector's yielding fate 

To Hades sank. Him Phoebus then forsook, 

To Peleus' son the blue-eyed goddess flew, 

And standing nigh, these winged words addressed : 215 

"Achilles! dear to Jove! I trust we shall 

At length unto the ships great glory bear, 

Brave Hector slain, though thirsting for the fray. 

Foil us he cannot now, e'en though in prayer 

Far-darting Phoebus self should prostrate fall 220 

Before the feet of Aegis-bearing Jove. 

So rest thee now and take thy breath whilst I 

Haste to persuade him meet thee face to face." 

Thus Pallas spake ; he glad at heart complied ; 

Standing he leaned upon his ashen spear. 225 

Then leaving him, she Hector sought, the voice 

And form, assuming of Deiphobus. 

And standing near, these winged words addressed : 

"Brother! Achilles round our fathers' town 

With flying feet now sorely presses thee. 230 

But stand we here, his onset to await." 

In turn great Hector of the glancing helm : 

"Deiphobus, of all fair Hecuba's 

And Priam's sons, the dearest e'er wert thou, 4 

But now more ardent glows my love, since thou 235 

Alone hast bravely dared to succor me 

While others skulk behind the city walls." 

To him the blue-eyed goddess thus replied : 

" Brother, our sire and honored mother both 

Have clasped my knees and begged me stay within, 240 

So did our comrades all ; such is their dread. 

Still in my inmost soul I felt for thee. 

Come, fearless fight we now, spare not thy spear, 

But prove at once, if now Achilles fierce 

Shall slay us both and bear our bloody spoils 245 

Away, or fall himself by thy strong spear." 



aHUS was he lured by Pallas' wiles to fight; 

And when the twain drew near and facing stood, 
Great Hector of the glancing helm began : 

" Thrice round my father's city, Peleus' son, 250 

I fled, nor dared thine onset wait. But now 
I'll fly no more, my roused soul bids me here 
Dauntless to stand and slay thee or be slain. 
Invoke we then at once the gods ; they will 

Our sacred compacts witness best and guard. 255 

No outrage foul on thee I'll use, should Jove 
Grant me the day. Thy life alone I'll take, 
Then to thy Grecian friends, but stripped of arms, 
Thy corse I will restore. Do thou the same." 

With grim gaze thus Achilles swift of foot : 260 

" Hector, vile one, talk not of compacts now, 
As none "'twixt men and lions can exist, 
As lambs and wolves no concord can enjoy, 
But ceaseless hate glares in their hostile eyes, 

So ne'er in friendship's bonds can we unite, 265 

Nor firm agreement form, till thou or I, 
Falling shall glut insatiate Mars with blood. 
Come! summon all thy valor now and prove 
Thyself the spearman skilled and warrior bold. 

Escape thou canst not now; for by my spear 270 

Pallas shall soon avenge the numerous wrongs 
Of comrades dear, thy raving spear hath slain." 
This said, he poised and hurled his mighty spear. 
Brave Hector saw and shunned the lance; he stooped; 
O'er him it flew and to the ground stuck fast. 275 

Unseen of Hector, Pallas plucked it forth 
And unto swift Achilles gave it back. 
Then Hector thus to Peleus' blameless son: 
"God-like Achilles, thou hast failed; nor yet. hath Jove 
My fate revealed to thee, as thou dost boast. 280 

Deceitful one! thy subtle speech was meant 
To fright my valor proved to craven fear. 
Thy spear no more my fleeing back may strike, 
No! plant it here into my valiant breast, 

Should Jove so will. But now in turn ward off 285 

My spear. O, may it pierce thy body through. 
Then lighter far to Troy the toil of would piove, 
If thou her fiercest foe should breathe no more." 
This said, he poised and hurled his mighty spear 

Nor missed; it midmost struck Achilles' shield 290 

Then glanced away. Great Hector burned with wrath 
To see his spear had left his hand in vain. 
He stood in awe; his only spear was gone. 
White-clad Deiphobus he loudly called 

A spear to lend. But lo! he was not there. 5 

Then Hector knew his doom and grieved aloud: 
"Oh, me! the gods above now truly will my death, 
I thought the brave Deiphobus at hand; 
But ne'er left he the walls." 'Twas Pallas' self 

Betrayed me thus. Aye, death has come and all 3°° 

Escape is vain. This then of old Jove's son 


Decreed, and Jove himself, yet er'ewhile they 

Were fain to succor me. Come on dark fate ! 

I will not die inglorious, but in some 

Great deed, whereof men yet unborn shall hear." 305 

And with these words he drew his keen edged sword 

That hung in massive strength besides his flank, 

Then rushed he like the eagle soaring high, 

That darteth down the plain through lowering clouds, 

To seize a tender lamb or crouching'hare. 310 

So Hector rushed, and brandished his keen sword. 

But filled with fiercest rage Achilles came. 

Before his breast, his glittering well wrought shield 

He bore, and tossed his bright four-plated helm, 

Whilst round it, glistening waved the golden plumes 315 

That Vulcan thick had set about the crest. 

As Hesperus, the fairest light in Heaven, 

Beameth most bright mid night's starry host, 

So gleamed the keen edged spear, which in his right 

Achilles poised, intent on Hector's death. 320 

He scanned his foe to find the weakest spot; 

But his whole form the bright mail guarded well, 

Which Hector stripped from staunch Patroclus' corpse, 

Save at the neck one little chink revealed 

The throat, where life a ready victim yields. 325 

There, as he rushed, Achilles drove his spear. 

Right through the tender neck the lance was driven, 

But severing not the pipe it left him still 

The power of speech. Low in the dust he fell, 

While o'er him thus exulted Peleus' son: 33° 

"Hector! when thou Patroclus stripped didst deem 

Thee safe, and little recked of absent me. 

Thou fool ! for I, thy better far, and his 

Avenger, I, who now thy knees unstrung 

Then tarried near the ships. Thee dogs and birds 335 

Will foully tear, while friends his burial grace." 

Then thus faint Hector of the glancing helm: 

" By thy own soul, and knees and parents' love, 

O! leave me not a prey to Grecian dogs. 

Accept the ample gifts of bronze and gold, 34° 

My honored parents soon to thee will bring; 

Restore my body that my Trojan friends 

May duly mourn it on a funeral pyre." 

With grim gaze thus Achilles swift of foot: 

" Urge not, vile cur, my knees or parents' love. 345 

Would that my hate could bid me tear and eat 

Thy quivering flesh; such wrongs I've borne from thee. 

None will there be to save thy head from dogs. 

No! not though ransoms ten or twenty fold 

Be paid me here, with further promise made. 35° 

Not e'en if Priam's self th*y very weight 

In gold should bring, would I thy mother grant 

To lay thee on a bier, and mourn her child. 

No! dogs and birds will eat thy mangled limbs." 

Then dying, Hector of the glancing helm: 355 

" I knew I could not move thy ruthless soul, 

Thou bearest in thy breast a heart of steel. 

Take heed, lest wrath divine on thee I draw, 


When Paris with Apollo's aid will smite 

Thee down, though brave, before the Scean gates." 360 

He ceased and o'er him fell the veil of death, 

His limbs grew cold, his soul to Hades flew, 

To mourn her loss of strength and )Outhful bloom. 

Then him, though dead, Achilles answered thus: 

li Die thou! my fate I will accept, what day 365 

The deathless gods with Zeus shall so decree." 

He spoke and from' the corpse the bronze spear drew, 

And set aside, then from his shoulders stripped 

The blood-stained mail. The Greeks in crowds thronged round, 

To gaze on Hector's tall and god-like form, 370 

And drawing near, they each a fresh wound dealt; 

Then one to one they looked and cried: " Go to 

More easily now is Hector dragged about 

Than when in life, he set our ships ablaze." 

Thus did they speak and Hector wound anew. 375 

Soon swift Achilles, having stripped the slain, 

Stood in their midst and spoke these winged words: 

" Friends, chiefs, and rulers of the Argive host, 

Since heaven vouchsafed us slay this man, 

Who graver ills did work than all combined, 380 

Let us the walls with hostile arms assail, 

To learn what purpose holds the minds of Troy; 

Whether their helpless town they will forsake, 

Or guard it still, though Hector be no more. 

But why, my soul such ill-timed thoughts indulge? 385 

There near yon ships, lifeless, unurned, unwept, 

Patroclus lies. Him how can I forget, 

While still I breathe, while yet my limbs can stir. 

Nay, e'en in Hades should the dead their friends 

Forsake, dear comrade ! thee I'll ne'er forget. 390 

Come, Grecian youths, the sounding paeon wake 

While to the fleet our noble prize we bear. 

Great glory have we won, great Hector slain, 

To whom as to a god all Ilium knelt." 

He said and foul deeds against Hector planned. 395 

From heel to ankle- joint the tendons both 

He slit and thrust through leathern thongs; them to 

His car he bound, but left the head to drag. 

Mounting, he raised the glorious atms aloft, 

And lashed the steeds They nothing loth flew on. 400 

A cloud arose from the trailing corpse; loose flowed 

The raven locks, deep rolled in dust the head, 

So graceful once. Alack ! By Jove's decree 

Fierce foes now outraged him in sight of Troy. 


ffjS)HE head was grimed with dust. At sight of it 405 

The mother threw her glittering veil away, 
Tore out her locks and rent the air with cries. 
In woeful shrieks the father moaned. Throughout 

The town such rueful sounds of wail arose, 

That one would say all beetling Troy now wrapt 410 

In flames, to smouldering ruins was crumbling fast. 


Scarce could the crowd the frantic sire withhold, 

As in his grief he struggled to the gates. 

Low in the dust he knelt, imploring each 

By name, release their grasp and let him forth: 415 

"Unhand me, friends, and stay me not within, 

But leave me seek alone the Grecian fleet 

To sue this fierce and heartless man. He may 

Perchance my years regard and pity one 

In hoary age, for his own sire's sake, 420 

Peleus, who gave him breath and reared him up 

The curse of Troy, and most of all to me 

Whose many stalwart sons he has destroyed. 

I weep them all, but for this one the grief 

I feel, my soul to Hades' realms will drag. 425 

Hector! would thou hadst died in my embrace, 

Then could thy hapless mother and myself 

With wailing and with tears our pang allay." 

Thus he bewailed and with him mourned the men. 

Meanwhile the queen thu? led the women's plaint ; 430 

"Ah, woe is me! why breathe I still, my son, 

Since thou art dead : thou who wast night and day 

Throughout the town my glorious boast. Thou hope 

Of all the men and dames of Troy, who hailed 

Thee as a god. In life thou truly wast 435 

Their joy and pride Alas! thou art no more." 


HUS she bewailed. Not yet had Hector's wife 

The woeful tidings learned. No messenger 

His stay without the gates had yet announced. 

Within her walls a two fold purple web 440 

With varied flowers embroidered rich, she weaved 
And called upon her fair-haired maids, to set 
An ample tripod on the fire, that thus 
Hector returning from the fray might bathe. 

She little dreamed, fond one, that far from baths 445 

Pallas had slain him by Achilles' hand. 
But, hark! loud shrieks and groans rise from the tower; 
She reels; down from her hands the distaff drops. 
And to her fair-haired maids in haste she cries: 

"Come ! two of you with me and learn why rise 450 

These cries. My mother's voice I heard, my heart 
Leaps to my mouth, my knees are numbed. 
Some dire woe sure Priam's sons o'erwhelms. 
Be false my fears; yet still I dread lest now 

Achilles fierce has cut off from the walls 455 

My Hector brave to drive him to the plain 
And ere this quelled the fatal pride, 
That urged him e'er despise the vulgar throng, 
And yield to none, but boldly rush alone," 

She said; then hurried forth with frantic look 460 

And beating heart, attended by her maids. 
The turret soon and thronging crowds she reached, 
And gazing o'er the walls beheld him dragged 
Before the town, by swift and ruthless steeds 
Away towards the Argive hollow ships. 465 


Then dark night veiled her eyes and shrouded her, 

And back she fell and gasped her soul away. 

From off her head she shook the bright attire, 

The net, the frontlet and the woven bands, 

The veil, by golden Venus given, the day 470 

When Hector of the glancing helm, his bride 

Led from Eetion's halls with gifts untold. 

In haste around her thronged her sisters all, 

And held her drooping in a deathlike swoon. 

But when at last her breath and life returned, 475 

With deep sobs thus among the dames she spoke: 

"O, Hector mine, we both to one dark fate 

Were born. In Troy, in Priam's palace thou, 

And I in Thebes, 'neath Placus' shady groves, 

Where in Eetion's dome, a hapless sire, 480 

His hapless daughter raised; would I had ne'er 

Been born. To Pluto's realms now thou art gone, 

Whilst I on earth in utter woe am left 

Alone a widow with this speechless babe, 

Whose hapless parents we have been. To him 485 

Thou canst not be a guide, nor he to thee 

A joy. This tearful war, though he survive, 

All future days will see him wrung with woes. 

Strangers his lands will seize. The day that makes 

The orphan child, makes him a friendless boy. 490 

With downcast look and cheeks bedewed with tears 

He seeks, unfed, his father's former friends, 

Plucking of some the robes, of some the cloaks, 

In pity one holds up a scanty cup, 

That moists his lips, but leaves his pa 7 ate parched. 495 

Some child both parents' smiles enjoying still 

With blows and taunts, will drive him from their board: 

'Begone ! with us thy father does not feast.' 

In tears the boy his widowed mother seeks 

Astyanax, who erst on his sire's knee . 500 

Was fed with marrow and the fat of lambs; 

And when soft sleep stole on his infant play, 

With happy heart, within his nurse's arms 

Or on a downy couch he sweetly slept. 

But now, his father lost, Astyanax, 505 

So named in Trey because thy single arm 

Guarded its walls, sore wrongs will e'er endure. 

Far from thy friends, alas! near yon beaked ships, 

Now ravenous dogs and coiling worms devour 

Thy naked limbs, whilst in the halls thy robes, 510 

The rich and graceful work of women's hands, 

Neglected lie, for thee they ne'er shall clothe; 

These then to honor thee I'll set ablaze 

In sight of all the Trojan men and dames." 

As thus she moaned, the women joined her wail. 515 

J. Armstrong, F. Killeen, 

M. Bergeron, W. Kohn, 

W. Brickell, C. McIntyre, 

J. Crandell, C. Mulherin, 

J. Diaz, R. Rives, 

E. Fitzgerald, L. Stutzer, 

W. Gassie, W. Supple, 

Feast of St. John Chrysostom, 1891. 





'HILOSOPHY teaches us that 
the actions of rational beings is 
merely the tendency to repro- 
duce some exemplar which they 
have already conceived in their 
minds. So it was with Michael 
Angelo when he reproduced in marble 
that statue of Moses which he had con- 
ceived in his mind, or erected St. 
Peter's after the model which genius 
alone could have inspired. So it was 
with a Rubens, or a Marillo, or a 
Raphael, who, by reproducing with the 
brush their ideal conceptions, gained 
for themselves immortal names. And 
so again with Homer, who painted his 
heroes in so clear and admirable a light, 
that when we read his grand epics the 
very forms of his heroes seem to rise 
endowed with speech and action before 
our imaginations. 

Even God Himself, when by His 
Almighty fiat He called forth from 
nothing this grand work of the universe, 
and created the innumerable beings 
both spiritual and corporeal, did no 
more than reproduce the ideal which, in 
the perfect knowing of Himself, He had 
contemplated from all eternity. So nec- 
essary is an ideal of some sort or other, 
that, if we have it not, we do not seem to 
act like intelligent beings. And hence it 
happens that one who has not a defi- 
nitely clear conception of what he is 
about to do, will be inconsistent in his 
efforts and unsuccessful in the issue. 
Puzzled at almost every step by unfore- 
seen difficulties that arise, his judgment 
will fail, and doubt, as a matter of fact, 
will paralyze his energ es. Hence it 
happens that there are a great many in 
this world of whom we may say, not 
from a moral but from a strictly intel- 
lectual point of view, — " nesciunt quid 
faciunt ;" they know not what they do. 
Many confess that there is nothing 
harder for them than to bring before 
their minds in a clear, simple way the 
affair they have to treat, or the line of 
conduct they are about to pursue. 
When they have some faint, far-off 
glances of the end they think it is 
enough, because they can discern 
through the gloom the way that leads 
to the attainment of their goal, and for 

the rest they do not disturb themselves, 
for they suppose they can inquire for it 
on the way. I admit it is no easy 
matter to bring an important project 
fully before our minds. Our imagina- 
tion fails to keep the fitful, vanishing 
images present before us, and the intel- 
lect in its turn prefers to scamper away 
to those pleasant fields whither the 
imagination would lead it. For this 
reason we are seldom able to conceive 
a thing fully and powerfully, and from 
this arises the difficulty we experience 
in forming any fixed and determined 

An ideal is necessary to shape the 
course of our lives, and it should be of 
such a nature that its excellence might 
elevate our minds and nerve us in 
moments of difficulty and trial to deeds 
of perseverance and labor, and keep us 
steadfast in our chosen path. When 
our weary feet falter on our upward, 
onward march, when our heart sighs with 
sorrow, pain and disappointment, bright 
above the obscurity and gloom our 
ideal like a beacon light should shine 
on our weary soul and gladden it with 
the enthusiasm of a bright ray of hope 

Nature has moulded all men to suit 
the different positions of life, and com- 
paratively few has she fitted for the 
highest positions. But each one in his 
own sphere — the poet as well as the 
mechanic, the statesman as well as the 
laborer — should propose to himself his 
own model or ideal which he should 
follow or imitate. But perchance some 
one may say : " Suppose this ideal of 
ours is not attainable, why then should 
we waste our energies in striving after 
what cannot be attained." To these I 
answer : " True enough, the ideal may 
not be attainable, nor do we suppose it 
attainable in all cases." When our 
Lord sets before us the infinite, all- 
perfect, uncreated One as our model, 
surely He does not suppose it possible 
that we can attain its infinite degree of 
holiness and perfection. No ; He only 
wishes that the infinite purity and holi- 
ness of His Father should excite us to 
become more perfect and less imperfect 
in his sight. He wishes to call forth all 



the dormant energies of our soul to 
render us more and more like to Him- 
self, whose created image we are. 
Indeed, even if the model could not be 
easily attained, it would nevertheless 
serve the purpose of our ideal, the main 
object of which is to bring into play in 
the most skillful manner all the deep, 
latent energies of our nature. This is 
especially its aim and office. But 
granting we had already attained the 
summit of our ambition, that there was 
no image of perfection away in the 
distance beckoning us on, our intellect, 
from the very satiety it would ex- 
perience in the production, would need 
that quickening impulse which is the 
secret of all its progress and develop- 
ment ; for without it, it would naturally 
come to a stand-still, and soon, instead 
of fertilizing and enriching the mind by 
its generous overflow, it would become 
inactive and stagnant instead of being 
a channel of health, life and vigor. 
Those great geniuses of past ages, who 
now stand as the landmarks of their 

age, seemed to realize fully the necessity 
not only of proposing to themselves 
some well defined object or ideal to 
which they should direct their energies, 
but they also knew that this same ideal 
should be grand and ennobling, as 
Cicero expresses it when speaking of 
his ideal orator: " A liquid magnum 
inftfiiiumquey No doubt, the realiza- 
tion of this figure in the concrete was 
the orator Crassus in his famous oration 
"Pro Caepio" just as Callistratus in 
the oration for Crassus was Demos- 
thenes'. Both these orators conceived in 
their mind a far higher standard of 
eloquence than they saw possessed by 
any of their contemporaries. Yea, even 
higher than could possibly be attained. 
Pcrfectae cloquentiae specimen animo vide- 
mur, effigiebus quaerimus. It was doubt- 
less the contemplation of these lofty 
ideals that caused the Greek and 
Roman orators to become inspired with 
so generous an enthusiasm for their art; 
and it was alike the secret of their 
untiring labors and immortality. 

K. Heusner. 


Leniter stratis maris aequor undis 
Splendidum coelum radiosque sobs- 
Quum reflectebat, sua navis arcta 
Vincula solvit. 

Dumque procedunt medias in undas 
Dumque dilectum patriae relinqunnt 
Littus et sedes sociosque caros 
Corde premuntur. 

Inter has vero facies dolentes 
Una coelesti similis refulget, 
Sensibus laetis etenim repletum 
Cor scatet ejus. 

Non enim nunc de patria relicta 
Cogitat vel de sociis amatis, 
Altius vero jam animus levat se 
Nobilis ejus. 

Nam Dei summum decus et salutem 
Indiae spectat, cor et ejus ardens 
Sic adimpletur pietate laeta 
Atque suavi. 

Jas. P. Armstrong. 





HAT amusing and at the same 
time instructive reading! The 
old catalogues tell many tales. 
Here are some of the announce- 
ments we meet away in the 
fifties: "Next session will open 
eighth of December;" "The 
annual commencement will take place 
on the 26th of October." How strange 
it would seem to us were we to read 
that in any of our present catalogues. 
But this great surprise will, I sin- 
cerely hope, be spared us. Until '61 
the annual commencement had been 
gradually advancing, when, in that year, 
it was announced to take place on the 
30th of September. After the war it 
receded steadily until it reached the 
latter days of August, where it remained 
until the College was destroyed by fire 
on the night of the 5th of February, 
1869. The first annual commencement 
in the new College took place on the 
24th of August. The old custom of a 
two or three days' exhibition gradually 
disappeared also. It must have taken a 
very long time to prepare for those 
exhibitions if we may judge them by 
their length. We fear they were some- 
what tedious even though they were 
interesting. As years roll by we see 
the musicians beginning to occupy a 
larger part in the programme, and the 
young and eloquent speakers were 
allotted less time for their speeches, 
which no doubt was pleasing to all 
parties if we except the young orators. 
The programme certainly was very 
varied — essays, tragedies, lectures on 
scientific subjects, speeches, songs, and 

Then, again, what names we meet in 
these old catalogues. It is a consola- 
tion to some of the present generation 
to find that their fathers d'd not take 
all the premiums, and that they were 
not without their schoolboy failings 
So take courage, boys, and strive 
diligently and incessantly to excel your 
fathers. Let us look through the old 
names. What a contrast ! In the same 
class, on the same benches sat those 
whose course of life was to be as 
opposite and widely separated as the 
poles. The journalist, the lawyer, the 

physician, the engineer, the state gov- 
ernor, the judge of supreme court, were 
there with the New Orleans merchant 
and Louisiana planter; and the wild 
Texas "rancheros" may have shared 
the same bench with one who was 
destined to bear the mitre. It would 
occupy a long list were we to enumerate 
all the old students that have left a 
name in various pages of history. Paul 
Morphy, the world-renowned chess 
player, seemed to be as good at his 
books as at the chess table. For one 
year we find he took first premiums in 
his class for Latin, Greek and English, 
and second in Christian Doctrine, 
French and Arithmetic, whilst he was 
awarded that year the first prize for 
Good Conduct. Another name, which 
will ever be dear to Spring Hill, is that 
of Hon- N. H. R. Dawson, United 
States Commissioner of Education, who 
has on every occasion shown a constant 
love for his Alma Mater; and through 
whose exertions the College Library 
has been enriched by many valuable 
books. The Hon. Edward Bermudez, 
well-known in New Orleans at the present 
day, was also a pupil of Spring Hill that 
year. It is strange with what other 
names we meet during our perusal of 
these old catalogues; and names which 
fame has smiled upon and which have be- 
come immortalized by their own works. 
While Paul Morphy was a student, 
Richard Dalton Williams, the renowned 
poet, was Professor of English in Spring- 
Hill College; and here, under the balmy 
Alabamian sky, 'midst the picturesque 
scenery and soul-inspiring atmosphere 
of this secluded spot, no doubt inspired 
by his muse, he composed some of his 
sweetest and most affecting poems. 

In those days the boys wore an 
uniform of dark blue, with pantaloons 
of the same color for winder, and white 
for summer. We wonder how the white 
pantaloons fared with the red sand and 
during the wet season. That usage has 
also disappeared with the lapse of time, 
and there hardly remains at present a 
vestige of the customs that signalized 
the opening career of the College. But 
the war came and many of those noble 
lads donned the Gray, and devoted their 



lives to the noble yet ill fated cause 
which they had espoused. Many of 
those whose names we read in the old 
catalogues followed the flag of Lee or 
Beauregard. They fought long and 
valiantly for the Confederacy, and, when 
the cause was lost, all who survived 
returned to their own cities and began 
anew the struggle of life. 

Some of the old catalogues published 
the speeches of the graduates, but of 
latter years I suppose that they are a 
little too modest to have their names 
and works in print. In those days there 
were the " Eurodelphian Society," the 
"Philomathic Society," and the" Calliope 
Society." We have lost those nice 
names ; but, after all, " what's in a 
name? " The same things exist at pres- 

ent under less high-sounding titles 
Another well-known and well-remem- 
bered name presents itself to us in 
reviewing the catalogues. It is that of 
Fr Yenni. From the beginning, almost, 
we see his name occupying its accus- 
tomed place amongst the teachers, until 
a foot-note in the catalogue of '87-'8S 
explains its absence from the follow- 
ing catalogues. It states that "Rev. 
Dominic Yenni died July 8th, after more 
than fifty years teaching." Thus was 
lost to Spring Hill one of its oldest and 
best professors — a man proficient, to an 
astonishing degree, in both ancient and 
modern languages. But why need I 
say more of the priest whose life has 
already been dwelt upon very nicely b.y 
one of his pupils. 

Jas. Armstrong. 


0/^3 HIS title speaks for itself, for 
iHff) every classical student I imag- 
Sr^f ine is acquainted with Xeno- 
phon's Anabasis, at least he 
remembers the book, if only 
from the fact that he found 
the narrative dry and uninteresting. 
Why should it prove dry and un- 
interesting. Its subject is a thrilling 
story — a handful of men marching 
through the heart of a mighty and 
hostile empire, over mountains, through 
deserts, across rivers, and yet in spite 
of all these obstacles, reaching home 
in safety. Its style is perspicuous, 
fluent and graceful, and, moreover, 
written in a language rich, exquisite, 
harmonious, a language which Mac- 
aulay calls a chaste and majestic fabric 
of which Latin is but the insignificant 

First of all it is necessary for us to 
know something of the life of the 
author. He was not a man of wealth, 
and therefore he obtained his living by 
means of the sword and pen. He was 
for a time a student of the famous 
Socrates. There is some doubt as to 
the year of his birth, but judging from 
the best authority it must have been 
about 449 B. C. He died in the year 
359 B. C. In the year 401 B. C. he 
joined the expedition of Cyrus against 
Artaxerxes, in which he played a very 

conspicuous part. After this illustrious 
campaign he abandoned his sword and 
devoted his time to literary composi- 
tion, by which he has immortalized his 
name. Cyrus was the younger son of 
Darius, king of Persia. On the death 
of Darius and accession of his brother 
Artaxerxes to the throne, Cyrus was 
accused of treason by Tissaphernes, a 
Persian, and imprisoned and threatened 
with death by the king, his brother. 
Parysatis, their mother, pleaded the 
cause of Cyrus and obtained his liber- 
ty. Returning in disgrace and anger 
Cyrus gathered an army of about ten 
thousand Greeks, and secretly marched 
against Artaxerxes. The Greeks 
joined the army of Cyrus without hesi- 
tation, having been informed that they 
were to march against Tissaphernes, 
the satrap or governor of Lydia. This 
as we know, was a false alarm, but had 
Cyrus made known his designs they 
probably would have refused to enlist 
in his army. Collecting all the troops 
he could, Cyrus set out from Sardis 
marching in the direction of the 
Euphrates through the desert countries 
of Phrygia, Cilicia and part of Syria. 
Flaving reached the Euphrates he 
halted his army and disclosed his de- 
signs to the Greeks. At first they 
mutinied and refused to cross the river 
till Menon, one of the generals, set the 



example. The march was continued 
through Syria and Arabia, along the 
banks of the Euphrates, and they en- 
camped for the second time at Cunaxa, 
a little town situated near the river. 
Here for the first time they encountered 
the king's army. Cyrus ordered the 
Greeks to attack the enemy in the cen- 
ter, but unfortunately Clearchus did 
not carry out the command, and 
charged upon the left flank of the ene- 
my's line which broke and fled before 
him ; the centre, however, with Arta- 
xerxes in their midst, remained im- 
movable. Cyrus then charged with 
600 horse, breaking through the first 
ranks and putting to flight 6000 horse- 
men in guard of the king, but the 
enemy, though weak in courage, were 
so efficient in number that Cyrus 
with many of his followers were sur- 
rounded and slain. The Greeks re- 
turning from the pursuit attacked the 
Persians and drove them from the 

With the description of this battle 
closes the first, and litei'ally speaking, 
the last book of the Anabasis, for the 
succeeding books relate only to the 
retreat or "march down," and there- 
fore should be called the Catabasis. 
With the second book begins the de- 
scription of the great retreat. First 
let us picture to ourselves the suffer- 
ings the Greeks endured on this march. 
Think of the great distance they trav- 
ersed through barren countries, some- 
times being almost reduced to starva- 
tion and at other times suffering from 
intense cold. Again consider how 
they, a little band of troops, defended 
themselves against the great Persian 
army, and how they made their way 
over mountains, across rivers and 
through snow in some places nearly 
six feet deep. On returning to their 
camps after the battle of Cunaxa, the 
Greeks were greatly surprised to hear 
of the death of Cyrus, and having lost 
their provisions they probably would 
have been reduced to starvation but for 
the vacillation of the Persians. How- 
ever Tissaphernes was sent to them on 
pretended friendly terms and offered 
to guide them back to their own coun- 
try. Not suspecting the treachery of 
the Persians the Greeks were glad 

enough to accept this gracious offer. 
They were conducted across two canals 
to Sitace, a small town near the river 
Tigris. Here their suspicions were 
aroused against the Persians, and cross- 
ing the river they proceeded on their 
march apart from the army of Tis- 
saphernes, but their fears were soon 
quelled by the friendly apppearance of 
that general and they again accepted 
his leadership. They were led in a 
northwesterly direction for ten days, 
during which time enmity between the 
Greeks and Persians had been daily 
increasing. On reaching the river 
Zabatus the wily Tissaphernes pro- 
posed to hold a council ; the Greeks 
fell into the snare, and Clearchus with 
several other Greek generals were slain 
by the Persians. In the third book 
Xenophon comes to the front. After 
the death of the generals when the 
Greeks were abandoning all hope of 
ever reaching their homes again, and 
were on the very verge of despair, 
Xenophon stirred them to fresh action, 
renewed their courage, and induced 
them to elect new officers and continue 
the march. This was done without 
delay, and among others Xenophon 
was made general. The march was 
continued, but after having crossed the 
Zabatus they were attacked by the en- 
emy under Mithridates, who caused 
great annoyance among the rear ranks, 
but Xenophon collected a body of 
slingers and horsemen, with whom he 
dispersed the enemy. The Greeks 
proceeded on their journey through 
Armenia, being attacked from time to 
time by the enemy, and incurring 
many other difficulties. However, af- 
ter a long and toilsome march of many 
days, the weary Greeks reached the 
Black Sea. 

The fourth book mainly comprises 
the sufferings and difficulties the 
Greeks encountered on the march to 
the sea, which are so numerous that 
we cannot spare the time to give any 
satisfactory account of them. This 
brings us to the fifth, sixth and seventh 
books, which are wholly devoted to the 
movements of the Ten Thousand after 
their arrival at the Black Sea. Let us 
give a short account of the contents of 
these three last books of the Catabasis. 



We left the Greeks encamped near the 
sea. Here they applied to Anaxibus, 
the Spartan general, for ships to con- 
vey them by the sea. Two vessels 
were obtained, and some of the Greeks 
set out in them to bring in any ships 
they might find, but the captain of one 
deserted and sailed home. Polycrates 
in command of the other vessel re- 
turned with several other ships he had 
bribed, but he thought not enough to 
accommodate the whole army. The 
Greeks waited in vain for the return of 
the other ship and at last they resolved 
to embark the camp-followers, invalids 
and baggage in the few vessels at their 
disposal. After this the main body 
proceeded by land. They had several 
skirmishes with the inhabitants of the 
countries through which they passed. 
On one occasion they arrived at a little 
stream on the opposite side of which 
a hostile band was drawn up to pre- 
vent their crossing, but among these 
was an Athenian who had been 
abducted when young, but had not for- 
gotten how to converse in his native 
language. This man assured the bar- 
barians that the Greeks meant them no 
harm. So after mutual pledges of 
amity, the Nacrones, which was the 
name given to these people, conducted 
the Greeks for three days through their 
land to the boundaries of Colchis. 
Here they were again opposed by a 
native force stationed on a pass over a 
lofty range. The Greek generals took 
council as to the best plan of attack, 
and Xenophon addressed the army, 

saying: "Soldiers, these men whom 
we have before us are the only obsta- 
cle in the way of our being where we 
have so long been striving to be. If 
necessary we must eat them alive." 
Having sung the paeon, the Greeks 
commenced the charge in eighty col- 
umns with archers and skirmishers on 
their flanks. The Colchians could not 
withstand the furious attack made by 
the Ten Thousand, but fled in all 
directions. A few more days' march 
brought the Greeks down to the shore 
at Trapezus, a large Greek city. Here 
they pitched their camps and remained 
for some time, sacrificing to the gods, 
and celebrating games. Several more 
marches of short duration brought to a 
close one of the greatest campaigns of 
ancient times. The happy Greeks 
again returned to their homes, which 
in their despair they had never hoped 
to see again. Thus closes the record 
of a march 3465 miles through an un- 
known and hostile country — interesting 
because the story of a mighty enter- 
prise; sprightly, because intermingled 
with incidents of personal prowess, 
wonderful exploits, incredible dangers ; 
a record finally, which, because it in 
clear and graceful language brings into 
strong relief the characteristics of two 
nations, the' hardy Greek in conflict 
with the luxurious Persian, has woven 
itself into the history of mankind, and 
has remained to our day one of the 
classics — the school boy's dread and 
the learned man's friend. 

M. Mahorner. 


To Orleans arrived the conq'ring foe, 

And to their banners flocked the peers of France, 

And doomed the land of chivalrous romance, 
When Joan appeared, a shepherdess, aglow 
With heaven's fire and might. She struck a blow 

And forced proud Talbot and his earls to flee. 

The Loire is safe, and Charles through her is free, 
Is hailed, anointed, crowned as king ; and lo! 

His diadem's fairest gem is " La Pucelle." 
Afield again, her banner failed to guide ; 

Captured, accused of using charms from hell, 
A spotless victim at the stake she died. 

The martyred heroine, the world doth own ; 

When will the halo's sheen her death atone ? 




m> an 


Annual Picnic is usually 
event of no little impor- 
tance in the life of all college 
boys, and they look forward 
to that day with feelings of 
joy in the anticipation of the 
pleasure in store for them. Whenever 
there is some strange place to be 
visited, with a short railroad trip, it 
becomes a matter of very great impor- 
tance ; but when a visit is to be paid 
to an Indian camp, it assumes an im- 
portance to which ordinary college 
picnics can lay no claim. It will 
always be spoken of as the picnic by 
all college boys. Such, indeed, was 
our picnic of last June— nothing more 
nor less than a visit to the Apaches at 
Mount Vernon. 

Mount Vernon is the site of an 
United States military station. It is 
situated on the Mobile and Birming- 
ham railroad, some thirty miles from 
Mobile. There the Apaches are de- 
tained as prisoners of war. 

After the last outbreak in Arizona 
and New Mexico, under the famous 
Apache chief, Geronimo — said to be a 
Mexican captured in his youth — the 
government transferred Geronimo and 
his braves from their prairie home to 
Ft. Pickens, nearPensacola, Fla. Here 
they remained for some time under 
strict guard, but as the climate of 
Florida proved almost fatal to them 
they were removed to Mount Vernon. 

On the 26th of May, at 4:30 o'clock 
a. m., when the sound of the bell 
awakened us from our quiet repose, 
we lea'rned for the first time that we 
were not favored with a fair day. It 
was raining quite hard ; but there was 
still the mystery how we were to have 
our picnic in rainy weather. When 
we entered the refectory, however, we 
were informed that we were going to 
Mount Vernon. At the College sta- 
tion two cars were chartered to convey 
us to Mobile, and at seven o'clock we 
were on our way. Never did a more 
jovial band of college boys set out for 
a picnic. In a short time we arrived 
in Mobile, where the engine of the 
Mobile and Birmingham railroad stood 
puffing and snortipg, waiting to con- 

vey us to Mount Vernon. A parting- 
serenade was given by both bands to 
the Mobilians, and soon we were 
speeding on our way. The trip was 
very pleasant. Our road lay through 
the pine forests for almost the entire 
way. On either side of us the majestic 
trees reared their lofty heads. On 
each side of the track were quantities 
of wild flowers of various hues, and 
they filled the fresh morning air with 
their sweet perfumes. Now and then 
were crossed small streams in which 
were many large pine rafts which were 
floating down to the saw mills. On 
the way the bands played some choice 
selections which contributed much to 
enliven our trip. 

As soon as Mount Vernon was 
reached every eye was strained to get 
a first glimpse of the "red men." 
But in vain ; as there appeared noth- 
ing strange about the simple country 
station. There was the usual store 
and the lazy crowd. In a few moments 
we marched up the hill with drums 
beating and colors flyings, and soon the 
wide portals of the military post met 
our gaze. Here and there soldiers 
clad in the blue uniforms stood in 
groups conversing and listening to the 
choice selections of the bands. Sentries 
paced the well-kept walks and officers 
with their white gloves stood at the 
entrance of their quarters. The bands 
serenaded the officers, and a few 
Indians attracted by the music began 
to appear, and they remained in silence 
and amazement, leaning against the 
white walls of the inclosure. The 



barracks are situated on the summit of 
a high hill, from which an excellent 
view of the surrounding country can 
be obtained. On the one hand the 
village of the Indians, the well-kept 
grounds and quarters of the soldiers 
could be seen ; on the other the hillside 
and plain dotted here and there with a 
few huts and houses, and on all sides 
the vast extent of woodland, which 
extended as far as the eye could see, 
and seemed to mingle with the clouds 
far off in the horizon. As I stood 
musing upon the scene before me, " Is 
this," I exclaimed " all that remains 
of the famous Apaches, once so for- 
midable to the United States govern- 
ment and to Mexico." 

They were divided into several 
bands, each under a different chief, 
and during late years one of these 
bands was the terror of Arizona until 
they were killed or captured, after 
much trouble, by the United States 
troops, and sent to Florida. We then 
visited the several rows of huts. Here 
and there were seated groups of 
squaws laughing and playing cards, 
and for what we know, perhaps they 
were playing the Apache poker or 
euchre ; at any rate they were greatly 
interested in the game and they took 
no heed of us. Others were engaged 
in throwing long, thin rods with rings 
upon them, to see, it appeared, how 
far the rings would move on the rods. 

Our first object of curiosity was the 
chief, Geronimo ; he is quite old, 
stout, of a moderate stature and very 
muscular. He was clad in a soldier's 
uniform, and wore a small silver 
medal, of which distinction he seems 
quite proud. We spent some time 
conversing with him by means of an 
interpreter. The haughty old chief 
appears proud of his dignity, and 
attaches a certain amount of impor- 
tance to his person ; he would con- 
descend to give you his signature for 
one dollar, whilst a walking stick with 
his name upon it he considered worth 
an additional fifty cents. 

The second chief we met was 
Natchez. He is very unlike Geronimo, 
rather reticent. It would require all 
the energy of a New York reporter to 
make him talk or answer any questions. 

Natchez possesses more the air of an 
Indian chief than Geronimo. He is 
like those depicted by Cooper in his 
"Tales of the Prairie," tall, spare, 
broad-shouldered and erect ; he ^is 
indeed the type of the historical Indian. 

Any person who had doubts of the 
possibility of William Tell splitting 
with an arrow, the apple placed on 
the head of his son, would have them 
quickly dispelled had he seen the 
Indian boys shooting at coins placed 
on a stick about forty feet from them. 
Although not more than three-fourths of 
the coin was visible, still it was wonder- 
ful how often they struck it, seldom 
missing it more than an inch. Although 
some twenty were simultaneously en- 
gaged in the contest, no dispute ever 
arose as to whose arrow had won the 
prize. Whilst we were watching the 
Indian boys and admiring their skill, 
Chihuahua, another chief, came near, 
but, as if he considered us beneath his 
notice, he walked away when any one 
endeavored to approach him. The 
band gave Geronimo a serenade, and 
the red chief seemed to be highly com- 
plimented and pleased, especially with 
the bass drum. The Indians plied a 
vigorous trade in bows, arrows, walk- 
ing sticks, purses, and other trinkets of 
their own manufacture. Every boy 
had a bow and arrow, and each one. 
thought he could hit anything and 
even surpass the skill of the famous 
Tell. For a week after the only place of 
safety on the play-ground w*as to stand 
directly in front of the target, for if 
you happened to be ten feet on either 
side you were certainly in a very dan- 
gerous position. * 

The band having finished playing 
we took leave of Geronimo and his 
braves and returned toward the station. 
Near the neat little church refresh- 
ments were placed — an improvised 
fair for the benefit of the newly-built 
church. It is needless to say that the 
boys did ample justice to the lunch 
and aided considerably the financial 
position of the church. The bands 
then united and played a parting 
serenade, and in a few minutes the 
special was speeding through the forest 
of pines leaving Mount Vernon in the 
distance. Mobile was soon reached, 



the bands played some select pieces, 
and the cars of the Spring Hill road 
conveyed us quickly to old Spring 
Hill ; having spent, according to the 

opinion of all, a most pleasant day, 
and having had one of best picnics 
ever given by Spring Hill College. 
Wm. E. Brickell. 


>0 apology is needed for the few 
words we are about to say on 
the life and poems of Richard 
Dalton Williams. For, even 
if he had never been at Spring 
Hill, and had never been pro- 
fessor of rhetoric of that college, still 
" The Sister of Charity," " The Dying 
Girl," and " The Munster War Song," 
ought to gain for him the esteem and 
admiration of all true lovers of poetry. 
Williams, like all noble souls, cared 
not for the petty subjects which often 
attract youthful poets, but touched 
with his pen his religion, his country, 
and virtue, which he thought far more 
worthy of his muse than the flattery of 
princes. His exquisite poem, "The 
Sister of Charity," is but the outpour- 
ing of his soul in admiration for the 
heroic work and fortitude of those de- 
voted nuns, as his "Adoro Te Devote" 
mirrors forth his ardent faith which 
makes him exclaim : 

" O hidden God ! devoutly I adore Thee, 
Beneath these figures, truly, though concealed, 
, My heart bows down undoubtingly before Thee, 
Lost in the marvel Thou hast here revealed." 

Richard Dalton Williams was born 
in Dublin, on the 8th of October, 1822, 
and when quite young was taken to 
Grenanstown, County Tipperary, 
whither his parents removed their 

Here he grew to boyhood, "feeding 
his fertile imagination by the eager pe- 
rusal of all the tales of adventure, vol- 
umes of verse, repertories of fairy lore, 
and scanty chronicles of Irish history, 
which fell into his hands." The sur- 
rounding scenes also cast their spells 
over the future poet, for every moun- 
tain and valley, copse and dell, 
possessed its tale of patriotism and 

He was sent early to the Jesuit Col- 
lege of St. Stanislaus, Tullabeg, 
Kings County, and subsequently to 
Carlow. It was whilst a student in 
Carlow that Williams published his 

The Munstei 


first poem. 

This was no mere effusion of a 
would-be young poet. It is of this 
poem that Mr. T. D. Sullivan judi- 
ciously remarks: "It is especially 
commendable as the work of a mere 
lad. It is nowhere padded out with 
adjectives or adverbs to fill up the me- 
tre ; no rhymes are dragged in from 
afar and placed in situ with an amount 
of effort sufficient to move millstones." 

A certain learned critic says of it : 
" It proved to be a ballad of 
surpassing vigor, full of new and dar- 
ing imagery, which broke out like a 
tide of lava among the faded flowers 
and tarnished tinsel of minor poetry. 
The vigor seemed to be held in check 
by a firm and cultivated judgment 
There was not a single flight, which 
might have been called extravagant, 
nor a meter which could be objected 
to." And this was Williams' first 

Many other interesting works fol- 
lowed this one, and Williams was soon 
one of the foremost of that brilliant 
band of the National School which 
counted such members as Davis, Man- 
gan, McCarthy and other noted journ- 

In a review of his poems, published 
before he had attained his thirtieth 
year, Williams is spoken of in the 
following terms: "There is more im- 
agination in this vehement Tipperary 
singer than would form one hundred 
of the ordinary rhetoricians who attempt 
the toil divine of verse. His intel- 
lect is robust and vigorous ; his passion 
impetuous and noble; his perceptions 
of beauty most delicate and enthusias- 
tic ; his sympathies take in the whole 
range of human affection ; and his 
humor is irresistible. .... We 
have had many singers of song in our 
day, but Williams stands distinct and 
separate from all/' 



Williams was still a medical student, 
and from 1844 to 1848 applied himself 
seriously to his studies, and was most 
punctual in his attendance at the hos- 
pital and lecture room. 

He was an active member of the St. 
Vincent de Paul Society, and was ever 
ready and willing to visit and cheer the 
sick and dying, going often in the 
dead of night to visit some poor ex- 
piring wretch, or carrying food and 
raiment to the needy. His love of 
the muse did not prevent him from 
seeing a higher and more sublime 
poetry in ministering to the wants of 
his Master's sick poor. 

There was at that time a number of 
brilliant writers at the head of the 
Irish national press. As one of them, 
Williams was connected with the 
"Irish Tribune." This paper was 
edited for the most part by members 
of the medical profession, and Kevin, 
Isod O'Doherty and Williams were the 
nominal and responsible proprietors of 
the paper. The first number of the 
Tribune was issued on the 10th of 
June, 1848, and before six weekly 
editions were issued the paper was 
suppressed, and O'Doherty and Wil- 
liams imprisoned for treason and 
felony. O'Doherty was convicted, but, 
despite the efforts of the government, 
a verdict of not guilty was returned by 
the special jury in the case of Williams. 
He then went to Edinburg, where he 
continued his medical studies at the 
university, and there received his 
diploma. He then returned to Dublin 
where he practiced medicine until the 
summer of 185 1, when he came to this 

Immediately on his arrival in America 
he was offered the chair of English 
literature in this, our own College of 
Spring Hill. This offer was accepted, 
and for some years Williams taught 
the rhetoric class. 

However, his love of poetry did not 
leave him after his emigration, but 
still prompted him to write several 
sprightly, interesting poems, which, 
were they attributed to a Tennyson or 
Longfellow, would heap praise upon 
their author, but being an humble 
Catholic layman, his works are passed 
over by bigoted critics, and it remains 

only for us, the students of Spring 
Hill, to render to him the praise due to 
his lofty thoughts and stately metres. 
Many were the sonnets that came 
from his pen, as he sat in his little 
room in the old College, or walked 
beneath the spreading oaks or towering 
pines, listening to the song of the 
thrush and the mocking-bird, and 
breathing in the deep perfume of the 
magnolia and jessamine. 

In 1856 Williams left Spring Hill 
and went to reside in New Orleans. 
Here he married a Miss Connolly of 
that city, and shortly afterwards re- 
moved to Baton Rouge, and later on 
to Thibodeaux, La., where he died of 
hemorrhage of the lungs on the 5th of 
July, 1862, at the age of forty years. 
He is buried in the old graveyard of 
Thibodeaux. A plain, chaste column 
of marble, with the following inscrip- 
tion, marks his last resting place : 

Sacred to the memory of 
The Irish Patriot and Poet, 

Who died July 5, 1862, aged 40 years. 
This stone was erected by his countrymen 

serving in Companies C and K, IV. H. 

Volunteers, as a slight testimonial 

of their esteem for his unsullied patriotism 

and his exalted devotion to the cause 

of Irish Freedom. 

This monument, the worthy tribute 
of brotherly affection, replaced a sim- 
ple wooden cross, with the words R. 
D. Williams, died July 5, 1862, painted 
on it ; which no doubt would long 
since have disappeard, and then the 
grave become unknown, had not the 
generosity of the New Hampshire Vol- 
unteers rescued from oblivion the last 
resting place of a man who should be 
honored as a patriot and a poet. 

Williams may be little known ; his 
poems are scarcely ever spoken of or 
read, but still he is no less a true poet. 
He wrote not for praise, nor did he 
seek for the approbation of wealth and 
power. His style was simple and 
unpretending, but still his simple 
verses will ever be cherished by all 
true patriots and lovers of freedom, 
and Spring Hill will always cherish the 
memory of one who was for years an 
ornament to her chair of literature. 

William H. Kohn. 





HIS exhibition, given under the 
auspices of the Junior Literary 
Society, was only another 
laurel added to the long list of 
successes obtained in previous 
entertainments. The Lost Heir 
was rendered in a praiseworthy manner 
by the young amateurs. 

The exhibition was opened by the 
melodious strains of the college orches- 
tra in La Dame Blanche. The music 
throughout the entire performance 
was excellent and reflects great honor 
upon the members, whilst much praise 
is due to our eminent professors, 
Messrs. A. Staub and J. Block. 

Then followed the play ; but before 
proceeding, one would naturally like 
to glance over the cast. The dramatis 
personas were as follows : 
The Abbe de L'Epee. J. L. Crandell 

Julius, Count of Solar T. Heines 

(A deaf mute under the name 
of Theodore.) 

Darlemont F. Levis 

(His guardian and uncle.) 

St. Alme E. Trahan 

(Darlemont's son, a lawyer.) 

Frauval Senior J. P. Armstrong 

Frauval Junior J. L. Armstrong 

(His son, a lawyer.) 

Dupre B. Crandell 

(An aged servant.) 

Dubois ...W.Brickell 

(A waiting man.) 

Dominic C. Hebert 

(An aged servant of Frauval.) 

Martin J. Hanlon 

(Formerly doorkeeper of the old 

Mr. James L. Crandell, as The 
Abbe de L'Epee, did well. The 
Abbe's benevolent interest, his won- 
derful devoted ness and attachment to 
the young count, his zealous endeavors 
to restore his youthful protege to his 
rightful inheritance, were all charac- 
terized by Mr. Crandell in the able 
manner in which he acquitted himself. 

Julius, the deaf and mute, Count of 
Solar, impersonated by Master Thomas 
Heines, was rendered with so much 
intelligence that the audience perfectly 
understood his meaning before the 
Abbe had interpreted his gestures. 

Darlemont was creditably given by 
Mr. F. Levis. The gentleman seemed 
perfectly at home in the drawing-room 
scene, and deserves praise for his easy 
and natural composure. 

Mr. Trahan did very well as St. 
Alme, and should be encouraged in 
his efforts. 

Frauval Senior was enacted by Mr. 
James P. Armstong, who did very well. 

Frauval Junior was given to the care 
of Mr. John L. Armstrong. The gen- 
tleman's acting was a surprise to all 
his friends. Mr. Armstrong's words, 
containing all the sound and cogent 
reasoning of an excellent lawyer, were 
delivered in a truly oratorical style. 

The secondary characters also per- 
formed their respective roles in a 
promising way. 

The Album extends its congratula- 
tions and foretells a brilliant future to 
the Junior Academy. 

M. B. Bergeron. 



ir^ONG before the morning of Feb- 
H ruary ioth the excitement ran 
high among the students of 
Spring Hill College as they 
awaited with eager expectations 
the approaching festival of Mar- 
di Gras. Vast preparations had been 
made by the Independent Order of the 

Moon. Many beautiful and elaborate 
floats were reported to be about to 
enter the pageant. His Royal High- 
ness was to be impersonated by a man 
of world-wide celebrity and popularity, 
and her Gracious Majesty by one of 
Spring Hill's dudes. 

The subject of the parade was not 



yet known, and all these things com- 
bined served to render the excitement 
more intense. 

At last the long-expected day ar- 
rived, and despite the inclemency of 
a threatening atmosphere, the beauti- 
ful sun in all the pomp and grandeur 
becoming his rank finally peered out 
from behind the clouds and shed his 
dazzling rays upon this merry earth. 

Throughout the entire day the 
Knights were busily employed in ar- 
ranging the order of the procession 
and in procuring befitting costumes to 
participate in the regal pageant. 

"The Different Stages of Life," 
was now made known as the subject of 
the day's parade. The news spread 
with the rapidity of lightning and soon 
the general curiosity was somewhat 

At last the hour of three tolled from 
the mighty College bell. The proces- 
sion was then put into motion. 

First and foremost rode Sir John of 
the Goat, one of His Majesty's most 
courageous knights. He was mounted 
upon a fiery charger whose rich and 
gorgeous caparisons plainly bespoke 
the wealth and rank of the rider. His 
noble and modest demeanor, the man- 
ly carriage, the graceful gestures, all 
made a favorable impression upon the 
many sight-seers. 

Then followed an innumerable body 
of heralds whose grand and patriotic 
flourishes fired every heart. Next in or- 
der came the chariot on which proudly 
stood the Boeuf Gras. The car was 
beautifully decorated with ivy and 
flowers, whilst the immense bulk of 
the animal was decked out in a becom- 
ing manner. The noble Boeuf was of 
milk-white color and the possessor of 
a pair of prodigious horns. To these 
were attached long streamers of varie- 
gated hues which contrasted wonder- 
fully with the gaudy costumes of the 
slaves and executioners in attendance. 
Then came the royal float proceeded 
by a trumpeter on foot, arrayed in all 
the splendor which become a noble of 
His Majesty's court. In his hand he 
bore the royal insignia, a golden staff, 
flowing with the national emblems. 
Then followed the royal car drawn by 
six coal black steeds, led by pages in 

courtly attire. This chariot was a pic- 
ture of perfect elegance, being inlaid 
with gold and jewels and surmounted 
with several blue and white plumes. 
Towards the end of the car upon a 
platform bright with crimson carpeting 
and silken trailings, stood the throne, 
glittering with burnished gold, on 
which sat the king in royal robes. 
Above him spread a canopy fashioned 
like a broad sunshade, the effect of 
which was marvelous. Next to the 
king sat the queen in all her maidenly 
beauty and modesty, and at her feet 
was collected the court in magnificent 
apparel. In one corner stood His 
Majesty's jester, who was constantly 
employed in amusing the royal party. 
This float above all merited the ap- 
plause of the vast concourse of people 
collected along the route. 

"Folly" was the representation on 
the following float. A buxom, blush- 
ing country lass was sweetly smiling 
upon a gallant shepherd lad who, 
seated at her feet, was busily engaged 
in playing ditties upon his mandolin. 
This float was the most picturesque in 
the parade. 

"Feasting" was the next float. 
There seated at an immense table 
smiled the epicure. The table was 
spread with priceless delicacies of every 
description. Meats that might have 
graced the boards of the most wealthy 
kings. Meanwhile the hungry epicure 
was not idle, in his right hand he held 
an enormous knife, counter-balanced 
by an equally huge fork in the left, 
and was savagely disposing of the 
dainties before him. We will leave 
him at his pleasant occupation and 
proceed to the next float. 

This car, entitled "At Work," rep- 
resented one of the principal retail 
stores of the ideal city of Alabama. 
The proprietor of the establishment 
stood in the centre of the chariot. 
Directly in front of him was a counter 
upon which stood an innumerable 
amount of packages. The business 
man was endeavoring with might and 
main to wait upon half a dozen impa- 
tient customers. The float was pre- 
ceded by two pages armed with shrill 
whistles. Every now and then the 
sharp tones of the whistles grated upon 





the ear, followed by the never-failing left shoulders. The party was attended 

cry of " boxes, bundles, packages." by several pages who led the dogs. 

The representation was that of a store The royal hounds were splendid spec- 

on wheels. The building is of modern imens of the canine family. They 

architecture and is designed to be held their heads erect occasionally 

drawn through the different thorough- condescending to cast a look of su- 

fares for the purpose of delivering the preme contempt whenever the chariot 

goods which bave been purchased by met with any dogs of the humbler sta- 

the different customers. tions. The procession was terminated 

"In the Field" was the next float. b ^ the °° U /8!- ?*« and . drum ****' 

This car was most beautifully deco- composed of thirty-five pieces Thus 

rated. Upon it were many courtiers ^hd the students ot Spring Hill spend 

dressed in the garb of hunters. Many the fest,val of M * rd ' ^I? 8 ' 

of them had mighty hawks upon their M ' "l. Bergeron, 

Secretary to His Majesty Rex. 



" Let those laugh now, who never laughed before; 

And those who always laughed now laugh the more." 

'UCH was the quotation traced our midst and the artists were encored 

(Tapl on the last page of the pro- amid thundering applause. 

gramme, and although the " One Niche the Highest " was read 

promise was great the young by Mr. F. J. Killeen. The subject of 

artists fulfilled their pledge. the reading was well chosen and the 

The exhibition was opened young gentleman acquitted himself in 

by the College Orchestra in " Reraem- a very creditable manner, 

brances of Naples." The music was The sweet strains of the orchestra 

exquisite and the performers were again fell enchantingly upon the ear as 

warmly applauded. the young musicians faultlessly rendered 

"Our Guide in Rome" was then the* •' Hunting Scene." 

read by Mr. J. W. Supple. The gen- The farce then began with the fol- 

tleman read in a splendid manner and lowing cast: 

was well received by the audience. Mr> oldrents W> Lev i s 

A violin and piano duo was then G (his man) E . Fitzgerald 

played and greatly appreciated by Ga( £ m £ n \ c ....R. R iv es 

those present Spinnage \ ( farmers ) \ .. C . Mclntyre 

Mr James Hanlon was then intro- Homespun (Gregory's father) W. Gassie 

duced as Brother Gardner and de- Docto r's servant J. Hanlon 

livered an impassioned speech on liars. 

This gentleman has a great facility in The role of Oldrents was very well 

managing the dialects, but on this acted. This part required the actor to 

occasion he surpassed the most san- be in a continual passion, and such is 

guine expectations. Loud and pro- the genial disposition of Mr. Levis 

longed was the applause which fol- that many were inclined to believe 

lowed the termination of the speech, that the gentleman would fail to keep 

and the gentleman was forced to re- up his reputation. Not so, however; 

appear and repeat the latter part of his if anything, Mr. Levis excelled his 

oration. former efforts and is to be congratu- 

The next feature of the evening was lated upon his success, 

a duo entitled "The Carnival of No fitter person than Mr. E. Fitz- 

Venice." Mr. Chas. Mulherin played gerald could have been found to im- 

the ocarina, whilst Mr. Wm. Mulherin personate such a character as that of 

accompanied him on the guitar. These Gregory. The gentleman was faithful 

instruments were as yet unknown in to the charge entrusted to him and 



accomplished his task in a praise- 
worthy manner. 

Gammon and Spinnage were respec- 
tively rendered by Messrs. R. C. Rives 
and C. P. Mclntyre. Both did remark- 
ably well. 

The role of Homespun was very 
well rendered by Mr. Wm. Gassie. 

Mr. J. Hanlon as the Doctor's 
servant also did well. 

The College Glee Club closed the 
entertainment with a sweet and appro- 
priate song, entitled " Good Night," 
after which the students filed to their 
respective dormitories. 

M. B. Bergeron. 


C^y^HE former students of Spring 
jlKfl Hill who have visited the Col- 
^^ lege of late have no doubt 
missed the old white-haired 
brother who occasionally 
showed them around the 
grounds. He has gone to his reward. 
This slight tribute to his memory will 
no doubt prove acceptable to the 
readers of the Album. 

Brother Lagger was born at Mun- 
ster, in Switzerland, on the 15th of 
March, 18 15. His parents were very 
respectable. His eldest brother being 
elected mayor of the town, proved 
himself quite an efficient public officer 
by restoring order in difficult times. 

When about 24, Adrian left his pa- 
ternal roof and repaired to Domacello, 
a thriving town of Piedmont. Here 
he continued as clerk in one of the 
principal hotels for more than twenty 
years, after which time he returned to 
Munster. Two years later he felt 
himself called to religion. Generously 
did he respond to the voice of God; 
for, bidding adieu to parents, relations 
and friends he joined a band of mis- 
sionaries who were just setting out to 
assist the Jesuit Fathers of the New 
Orleans Mission. 

Brother Lagger was already 47 years 
of age when he was admitted to the 
Society of Jesus. But, if in this re- 

spect he resembled the laborers who 
entered the Lord's vineyard at the 
eleventh hour, his fervor and diligence 
may no less be compared with theirs. 
Naturally of an earnest and genial 
disposition he was remarkable for his 
charity, simplicity and obedience. 
These virtues he displayed in the va- 
rious duties of refectorian, cook and 
sacristan, first in Spring Hill, and 
when the College burned down, in 
Grand Cotean, then in New Orleans, 
Mobile, and finally in Spring Hill 
again for the last twenty years of his 

.Though gradually sinking and suf- 
fering greatly from the consequences 
of old age, he still continued to per- 
form the lighter offices assigned him 
by his superiors, and refused to take to 
his bed until a few days before his 
death. He realized that his end was 
approaching and awaited it with calm- 
ness and resignation. The last conso- 
lations of our Holy Mother the Church 
were administered to him on the 13th 
of January. On the evening of the 
15th, whilst he was chanting the lita- 
nies of the Blessed Virgin, his soul 
peacefully left his body to continue the 
praise of Mary among the choirs of 
Heaven. Thus did Brother Lagger 
leave our midst — a striking example of 
how blessed they are who die in the 
Lord. R. I. P. 

n. M- d. g- 







My First Impressions of College 71 

Brother Clement Staub 72 

The Battle of Tlascala 75 

Thacldens Kosciusko 77 

The Fatal Consequences of a Practical Joke 79 

History 80 

My College Home 82 

Scenery Along the Hudson 83 

Spring 84 

The Spirit of American Poetry 85 

Alabama 89 

In Memoriam 90 

A Page From the History of Mobile 91 

The Magnolia 92 

Father Yenni's Old Cremona 93 

Ad Fides Patris Yenni 93 

The Sunny South 94 

Love of Country 95 

Virgil and His Works..... 96 

College Bells 97 

College Items ! 98 

Quinctius Cincinnatus 100 

A Trip Up the Chesapeake .....105 

Kegina Coeli Laetare 106 

Quigualtanqui's Hunting 107 

Admiral Semmes 110 

Columbus 116 

A Trip Down the Mississippi River 120 

Notes on William H. Prescott 122 

Spring Hill College Juniors .125 

Mexico to Chapultepec 126 

Cardinal Manning 128 

The Mysterious Music at Pascagoula 131 

The Christmas Fires at Spring Hill College 133 

Shrove Tide at Spring Hill College 135 

The Late General of the Society of Jesus 138 

Rt. Rev. Michael Portier, D. D 140 

Grand Coteau 143 

Virgil— B. VI. About Marcellus 145 

Martyrdom of St. Dorothy 146 

Alfred Tennyson 146 

Lines on the Death of Alfred L. Waterman, S. J 150 

Sebastian 151 

Oda in S. Cm^ysostomurn 155 


New Series. 

MARCH, 1892, 

Vol. I. No. 2. 


FTER a hot and dusty ride 
from New Orleans we reached 
Mobile. All, whether they 
desired or not, and I believe 
very few were anxious to see 
the city, were crowded on 
the car for Spring Hill. It was 
easy to discern the boys who had 
been at the college before. For the 
sorrows of separation which had 
increased with the distance from 
home were soon lost in the pleas- 
ure they felt in reviewing familiar 
scenes. Occasionally they would 
point out a road which they had 
taken on one of their long walks, 
and they would recall numerous in- 
cidents that made them enjoy that 
day over again. As we neared the 
college that crowd became more 
excited. Now they expressed their 
sorrow for the loss of one compan- 
ion or another; now they wondered 
how things would look without 
such and such a professor's familiar 
face, how they would like their new 
teacher, etc. The lovers of base- 
ball grieved for the expert players 
of the past year, of whom I under- 
stood there were quite a number. 
In fact they seemed to be in such 
spirits and so much interested in 
these details that I said to myself: 
after all there cannot be all the 
terrors in college life that I heard 
prior to my coming. 

I was confirmed in this opinion 
when on entering the grounds I 
heard the college bell swinging to 
and fro flinging its peals of welcome 

to all. The flower beds so taste- 
fully arranged and clothed in all 
their beauty, the college with its 
porticoes and galleries, the foun- 
tains sending their spray high into 
the air, all conspired to make Spring 
Hill very attractive. My affections 
which began to entwine themselves 
around the place became more firm 
when we were ushered into dinner. 
Here contrary to all expectation I 
found the refectory nicely decorated 
and a good spread before me. But 
from hints that were thrown out I 
inferred, nor indeed did I expect, 
that this good cheer would last 
long. Nay, I was expressly told by 
one who had spent several years at 
the college that this was intended 
as a balm or an antidote against 
homesickness and to make the best 
of it. When we filed into the play- 
ground, Oh! how 1 envied those who 
had been at college before. They 
appeared at home; for the base-ball 
was tossed to and fro or sent flying 
into the air. The parallel and hor- 
izontal bars, after lying idle for two 
months, were again used for hard- 
ening muscle and increasing ac- 

Yet though they seemed happy, I 
had not the courage to imitate 
them; but sat apart to ad mire their 
feats. Soon, however, I was gazing 
into space while the image of home 
with all its loved associations came 
flitting before my mind. I pictured 
my parents, brothers and sisters 
not so joyful as when I was in their 



midst. I imagined I heard them 
say, I wonder what Joe is doing at 
present. Oh, could they only know 
how lonely and melancholy I was 
I am sure they would not have had 
the courage to send me to college. 
I was awakened from these sad 
thoughts by the bell of the prefect 
calling us to a bath in the lake. At 
any other time this refreshing bath 
would have been enjoyed to the full, 
but at present I thought not of 
skilful diving or graceful swim- 
ming. Nay, the pleasant ring of 
the other boys' voices fell grating 
upon my ear. What! thought I, 
could home have no attractions for 
them, that they should forget its 
pleasures so soon? 

As the shades of night grew 
thicker the thoughts of home came 
more frequently, and my grief be- 
came more intense. Consequently 
it was with no little satisfaction 
that I heard the signal for supper. 
I shall not attempt to tell you how 
lonely I felt that first night; I, who 
never before had been absent from 
home. Ah, it was then I appreci- 
ated for the first time, the benedic- 
tion of father, and the good-night- 
kiss of mother. No cheery greet- 
ings would await me in the morning 
from brothers and sisters. And 
this was to last for ten long months. 
I tried to look the fact in the face 

and make the best of it, but it was 
of no use, I could not summon up 
the courage. At last I concluded 
to endure it for a week. By that 
time I did not find leisure to brood 
over the sense of loneliness that 
was pressing upon me. Class had 
been called, lessons appointed and 
exercises given. Study hours 
usurped much of the recreation of 
the first days, and even recreation 
itself, as I had formed new ac- 
quaintances and had been pressed 
into different games, became, if not 
attractive, at least not displeasing. 
Now I feel like one who in a for- 
eign land is amassing a rich treas- 
ure, and will, in a short time, return 
to gladden friends and relatives. 
And while intent on working the 
mine of knowledge, hours have the 
speed of minutes, and months that 
of days, so that travelling at this 
rapid rate I will reach the end of 
the year before I am aware of it. 
Then as the ground has once been 
broken I shall find my future la- 
bors at Spring Hill more easy and 
pleasing. Instead of new faces, 
new surroundings and new occupa- 
tions I shall return to meet loved 
companions, shall resume pleasant 
duties, and spend another year in 
the place that has been hallowed by 
the recollection of past labors. 



STAUB was born in Zug, a 
smalltown of Switzerland, 
on the 29th of April, 1811. 
His parents were fervent 
Catholics, and early im- 
pressed the minds of their children 
with the knowledge and love of 
heavenly things. They taught 
them especial devotion to the 
Blessed Virgin. The following lit- 
tle incident illustrates this: When 
a mere child, little Clement, who 
was of a very lively disposition was 
one day running about on the 

neighboring heights. Wholly en- 
grossed in the shrill notes of a toy 
Avhistle he had in his mouth, he did 
not heed his foot-hold, and unfor- 
tunately fell into a deep pit. 
AVhen finally extricated from this 
place he was found unhurt save 
that the whistle had cut his palate. 
All looked upon the preservation of 
Clement's life on this occasion as 
little less than miraculous, whilst 
he himself ever afterwards attrib- 
uted it to the tender care of the 
Blessed Virgin. As Clement grew 
up his parents wished him to learn 



a trade. They accordingly sent 
him to a large shoe-making estab- 
lishment near Milan. 

Here our apprentice worked with 
his usual ardor and soon won the 
good graces of both his master and 
mistress. The latter even frequently 
rewarded the diligent youth with 
small presents. 

These marks of preference, how- 
ever, soon drew upon Clement the 
jealousy of companions less indus- 
trious. One of them, more piqued 
than the rest, availed himself of the 
first opportunity to mash a high 
hat which the mistress had but 
lately bought for her favorite. 
Clement could no longer brook such 
jealousy. He repaired to the mas- 
ter at once, got his savings and left 
the establishment. 

Trifling as the circumstance may 
appear, it was permitted by God 
who had destined Clement for a far 
nobler art than that which his pa- 
rents had intended. 

The time, however, had not yet 
come. And so we see Clement, 
leaving Milan, purchase a peddler's 
hand-wagon with which to journey 
from town to town. When on his 
way to these towns he always man- 
aged to take his night's rest at 
some monastery or other. It was at 
this period that the voice of God 
began to make itself heard in the 
heart of Clement. He did not turn 
a deaf ear to it and the affair of his 
vocation became henceforth the 
frequent subject of his thoughts. 
One night especially, when at a 
Franciscan convent he frequently 
implored God through the interces- 
sion of the Blessed Virgin to make 
known to him what calling he should 
follow. His prayer was heard. 
The next morning he directed his 
little wagon towards the Holy City, 
whither he was going in order to 
become a Lay Brother of the Society 
of Jesus. At length he arrived at 
Rome and proceeded straightway 
to present himself to Father 
Eoothaan, at that time general of 
the society. The simple and ear- 

nest manner of the young stranger 
won the favor of the general. He 
deemed it more prudent, however, 
to postpone his admission until he 
should gain further knowledge con- 
cerning the new postulant. Ac- 
cordingly he first placed him under 
a, shoemaker of the neighborhood, 
a very reliable man and excellent 
Catholic. He at the same time left 
him injunctions, to watch closely 
the conduct of his apprentice. All 
the reports having proved most 
satisfactory Clement was admitted 
into the Societv on the 29th of 
June, 1839. 

During his two years of proba- 
tion he edified his companions by 
his extraordinary piety and strict 
observance of the rules. After his 
vows he was madeManuductor. It 
was about this time that he re- 
ceived a singular favor at the 
hands of the Blessed Virgin. His 
arm had become paralyzed, and all 
the efforts of the physician had 
availed nothing. 

At last suffering greatly and 
much grieved at not being able to 
perform the duties of his office, the 
good brother had resource to his 
heavenly Queen. Confident of ob- 
taining relief he betook himself to 
her statue and falling upon his 
knees, with childlike simplicity ex- 
claimed: "Oh, my good Mother 
my arm is paralyzed and I can no 
longer work for you. You can do 
all things my good Mother. Take 
then pity on me and cure my arm." 
These burning accents had scarcely 
escaped when a thrill shot through 
the deadened arm. He then tried 
to move the arm, and lo! and be- 
hold! it was perfectly healed. Tears 
of gratitude rolled from his eyes as 
he thanked the Mother of Good- 
ness. Then with a beaming face 
and joyful step he hastened to his 
superior to acquaint him of his 
complete cure and ask him to re- 
sume his office. 

Some time after this happy event 
he felt himself called to America. 
His generous soul quickly re- 



spondedto the call from above and 
in 1848 he arrived in New Orleans 
to join the mission of the South. 
Here he labored in the performance 
of the humblest duties; at Grand 
Ooteau, New Orleans, Mobile and 
Spring Hill. His holiness was ev- 
erywhere a subject of edification to 
both his brethren and externs. His 
piety prompted him to rise before 
the usual hour, in order to have 
more time to devote to prayer. He 
loved also to spend hours before 
the Blessed Sacrament. Such indeed 
was his tender devotion for the 
Divine Prisoner of the Tabernacle 
that he obtained from Fr. General 
the wonderful permission of daily 

It is impossible, however, to love 
the Son without loving the Mother 
also. He had always cherished the 
Blessed Virgin, but from the time 
this good mother had cured his 
arm his devotion to her became 
most loving and tender. He ever 
styled her "my Mother," and never 
seemed more happy than when 
talking about her. Whenever he 
passed before her statue or image 
he always uncovered his head. He 
delighted in reciting her beads, and 
when old age prevented him from 
having a regular task he was al- 
most continually reciting her ros- 
ary. The last three years of his life 
he was our doorkeeper. Visitors 
were edified at the sight of the ven- 
erable white haired brother, as 
with beads in hand he quietly 
walked to and fro at the entrance 
of the college grounds. Catholics 
especially were moved to devotion 
at beholding the love that shone in 
his calm blue eyes and the sweet ex- 
pression that lighted up his saintly 
countenance as he invoked his dear 

Such a devotion to the Mother 
of God could not fail to draw 
many special favors to her devout 
client. Speaking one day of these 
blessings to a scholastic, he for the 
honor and praise of Mary, with 
tears in his grateful eyes, mentioned 

the following marvellous fact: 
"From the day'' he said, " on which 
I pronounced my last vows (a space 
of well nigh forty years) the 
Blessed Virgin had granted me the 
grace of never experiencing any 
thought or emotion contrary to 
the Holy Virtue." Besides these 
virtues the brother was also re- 
markable for his humility and 
obedience, his meekness and char- 
ity. Such was his generosity in 
God's service that when Father 
Roothaan was dangerously ill the 
good and simple brother implored 
the Almighty to spare the general 
for the good of the Society, and 
take his own life instead. He made 
the same offering on two subse- 
quent occasions for the recovery of 
the superior of the mission. 

Indeed Brother Clement longed 
to be dissolved and to be with God. 
He often directed his gaze to our 
little" graveyard and exclaimed: 
"Oh, how I would like to be resting 

Finally the summons came and 
the brother, most edifying in life 
was no less so in death. Towards 
the end of April he fell a victim to 
la grippe. The attack was the 
more serious, owing to the fact 
that the patient had just borne the 
weight of his eightieth winter. Yet 
so strong was his constitution that 
he was just beginning to recover, 
when poor brother, he was struck 
down by paralysis. The stroke 
completely deprived him of the use 
of his right side. God wished to 
purify his servant still more. A 
very large ulcer formed under his 
right ear. It had to be lanced 
repeatedly and caused him excru- 
ciating pains. Still, during his 
whole illness not a, murmur, not 
a syllable of complaint escaped 
the lips of the admirable patient. 
At last fortified by all the consola- 
tions of the church the saintly 
brother on the 20th of the beauti- 
ful month of May peacefully and 
joyfully left this world of sorrow to 
enjoy in heaven the sweet presence 



of his dearest Mother and her most 
glorious Son. 

After his death many of the boys 
were eager to secure some picture 
or other small article that belonged 
to him whom they considered a 
saint, and to whose prayers they 
had often recommended them- 

He was buried in the Community 
grave-yard in which also rest the 
remains of his brother Charles, like- 
wise a Jesuit lay-brother. He had 
come to this country about the 
same time as Clement but died in 
September, 1853. R. I. P. 



i bright and 

clear, and 
the Spaniards from their 
position on the hill had a 
magnificent view of the 
scene. Directly beneath 
them lay the still slumbering town 
of Tlascala. Beyond and on both 
sides stretched forth extensive fer- 
tile plains profusely covered with 
all the verdure of a tropical Au- 
tumn; and far off in the distance, 
in bold relief against the overhang- 
ing sky, rose a long chain of moun- 
tains stretching off on both sides, 
and forming a fitting background 
to this picturesque scene. 

The soldiers were, however, 
quickly recalled from this pleasing- 
sight to a sterner and more neces- 
sary duty. The Tlascalans had now 
begun to stir in the city below, and 
by their movements Cortez could 
see that they intended to attack 
him. He accordingly assembled his 
men and having arranged them in 
the order of battle stepped before 
them and addressed them thus: 

"Fellow Soldiers and Compan- 
ions! To-day the one great effort 
of our lives must be made to 
subdue the army which is now op- 
posed to us. Hitherto we have had 
to contend only against raw and 
undisciplined bands of troops; but 
now we are confronted by the 
bravest forces which the mighty 
empires of Tlascala andOtomiccan 
produce, all eager for the fight. 
Yet if we conquer them to-day 
these fierce nations will be obliged 
to lay down their arms; the neigh- 

boring nations will hasten to be- 
come our friends and allies, and the 
Mexicans themselves will begin to 
fear us and will receive us within 
their kingdom. Thus, by one 
great blow we shall have accom- 
plishea our object, covered our- 
selves with glory, and be able to 
reap the fruits of this toilsome 
campaign in the capitolof the Mex- 
icans. But to gain this you must 
implicitly obey all commands. 
The infantry must rely upon the 
point rather than the edge of their 
swords. The cavalry must charge 
at half speed, their lances aimed at 
the head of the Indians; while the 
artillery men, the arquebusiers 
and cross-bowmen must support 
each other; some loading whilst the 
others discharge, so that an inces- 
sant fire may be kept up during the 
whole of the action. Above all, 
however, you must keep close and 
compact, for upon this alone de- 
pends your preservation. Remem- 
ber that in to-day's battle there 
will be no alternative but to con- 
quer or die; for if w T e are defeated 
none of us can hope to escape, 
when we are pursued by so many 
enemies through their own country. 
I am satisfied, therefore, that each 
one will do his duty, if not for his 
country's sake, at least for his own; 
and that should death be your 
portion you will meet it as becomes 
the brave and heroic soldiers of 

Having finished his speech he 
again reviewed his troops and 
awaited the approach of the enemy. 



Meanwhile the Tlascalans had 
been assembling in the plains out- 
side the city, and they now 
amounted to nearly 120,000 armed 
men. They had not as yet been re- 
viewed by their commander, and as 
they waited impatiently for their 
chief, they formed a picturesque 
scene, with their glittering arms 
and waving banners. The com- 
mon soldiers were almost naked, 
having only a slight cloth about 
their loins. The leaders were bet- 
ter protected, having on a feathery 
kind of mail which was proof 
against arrows and lances, but not 
against bullets. Their arms con- 
sisted of bows and arrows, a lance, 
and a club with several sharp 
points on it, called a-maquahuitt.' 
From this it may be seen that they 
were then in arms very inferior to 
the Spaniards, yet their numbers 
were so great that this deficiency 
was little felt. 

At this moment Xicotencatl, the 
chief of the Tlascalans issued from 
the city with his officers, and con- 
fronting his army, thus addressed 

"Tlascalan Warriors! We have 
assembled here to-day to wipe from 
the face of the earth these daring 
invaders who have come hereto de- 
prive us of our lands, of our homes, 
and of our liberty. With only a 
handful of men they have dared to 
come into the very heart of the 
Tlascalan empire and demand us 
to treat them as friends. They have 
plundered our stores, ravaged our 
country, slain our warriors and 
now they want to seize the city of 
Tlascala itself. Shall this be? 
Shall we stand by and see a hand- 
ful of men sack our city, destroy 
our homes, and overrun our whole 
empire? With one accord you an- 
swer, no, not while there are suffi- 
cient men left to defend it; and it 
only remains now for you to main- 
tain your words by deeds and to- 
morrow's sun will again behold the 

mighty empire of Tlascala free." 
Having finished he gave the sig- 
nal and the whole army, with a 
great shout rushed upon the Span- 
iards. The latter, however, were 
prepared to meet them, and when 
the enemy were within range they 
delivered such a murderous volley 
into their very midst that the In- 
dians stopped, appalled at the 
dreadful carnage wrought in their 
ranks. In this position, being un- 
determined whether to advance or 
retreat, the Spaniards kept pour- 
ing in a galling fire, until at last, 
taking courage from their very des- 
peration they uttered their war cry 
and rushed upon their enemies. 
The latter endeavored in vain, to 
check their furious onslaught. 
Their ranks w T ere broken and 
thrown into disorder. The men 
were driven back and scat- 
tered by the barbarians. Even 
Cortez could not at first withstand 
the furious assault and it seemed 
as if the fate of the Christian army 
was sealed. But it was ordained 
otherwise. Every one of the Span- 
iards in this dire extremity fought 
with the strength of despair. The 
naked bodies of the natives offered 
no protection against the keen 
edge of the sword and thej* were 
hewn down in vast numbers by 
the infantry, whilst the artillery 
from the hill carried death into 
their ranks, and dismay into their 
bosoms. They were forced back at 
every point and finally obliged to 
retreat with dreadful slaughter be- 
fore the victorious Spaniards. 
Soon afterwards they again re- 
newed the struggle but were again 
defeated and obliged to lay down 
their arms. 

After this they became the most 
faithful and useful allies of the 
Spaniards and aided them wonder- 
fully in the subjugation of the 
neighboring tribes and in the Con- 
quest of Mexico. 






"Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell." 

ACITUS begins his life of 
Agricola by telling his read- 
er's that it was an ancient 
usage to transmit to pos- 
terity the deeds and man- 
ners of those who were great 
and illustrious in each country or 
state. The custom of two thou- 
sand years ago has been still pre- 
served; but alas, the true heroes 
are forgotten, whilst paid flatterers 
and chroniclers have written the 
lives of some of those whose actions 
have been a disgrace to their 

I have therefore the authority of 
Tacitus to commend me in trying 
to sketch truly the life of one of the 
grandest characters of modern 
times ; a man who belongs not to 
one city or country ; a man whose 
virtues belong to humanity, whose 
actions the civilized world will ever 
admire; a man in whom Poland 
laments a patriot whose life was 
consecrated to the cause of her lib- 
erty and independence; a man whom 
America will ever rank among her 
most illustrious defenders. This 
man was Thaddeus Kosciusko. 

He was born in Luthuania, Feb- 
ruary 12, 1746, of a noble family, 
and was educated at the military 
academy of Warsaw, and was grad- 
uated with the highest honors. 

On leaving school he entered the 
Polish army and rose to the rank 
of captain. 

While he was thus gaininglaurels 
in his own country the news of the 
American Revolution reached Po- 
land. Kosciusko warmly espoused 
the cause of the Americans. His 
whole nature was filled with a gen- 
erous enthusiasm and his noble 
and magnanimous soul prompted 
him to consecrate his sword to the 
cause of liberty. 

Leaving the land of his birth he 
proceeded to Paris where he made 
the acquaintance of Benjamin 

— rCampbell. 

Franklin, the American philoso- 
pher, patriot and statesman who, 
struck with the talents of the 
young Pole, readily gave him a 
letter of recommendation to Gen- 
eral Washington. 

At the time of Kosciusko's ar- 
rival Washington had complained 
to Congress that on account of 
their ignorance of English he was 
unable to employ many of the for- 
eign officers who had volunteered. 
But when Kosciusko presented him- 
self, Washington, favorably im- 
pressed with the young officer, 
asked: "W T hat can "you do?" "I 
have come to fight for freedom, try 
me," was the reply. Greatly 
pleased with the answer, Washing- 
ton gave him a commission as 
colonel of engineers under General 

On receiving his commission he 
at once repaired to his post in 
Northern New York. His first care 
was to make himself acquainted 
with all the defenses and then to 
point out where improvements and 
repairs were most needed. 

The success of the battle of Sara- 
toga may well be ascribed to the 
great engineering genius of Kosci- 
usko. For it was he who designed 
and built the fortifications which 
impeded Burgoyne's advance and 
cut off his retreat. The w r orks at 
West Point are another witness of 
his unrivalled skill in the same de- 
partment. His services as engineer 
were constantly in demand, and 
many were the improvements sug- 
gested by his fertile brain. 

His conduct on the field was that 
of a perfect soldier, always cool, 
obedient and ready for action, he 
was to be found in the front ranks 
leading some desperate charge or 
forlorn hope, or cheering on the 
despondent to renewed action. 

Beloved and respected by his 
brother officers, he was the idol of 



the soldiers and glory of the citi- 
zens. His modesty and gentleness 
in private life were only equalled by 
his skill and valor in the field. He 
might have remained if he had 
wished, in the country for which he 
had done so much, enjoying the 
fruits of his valor in the love of 
those whom he had benefited. But 
down-trodden Poland, Poland, his 
native land, claimed his services. 
The more the dangers increased the 
more the cause seemed hopeless, 
the tighter was he bound to his 
native land and the more his mind 
stimulated him to save her. 

Leaving therefore his adopted 
country he hastened to Warsaw 
where he found the country torn by 
internal dissension and oppressed 
by foreign enemies, on the verge of 
ruin. Poniatowski aided by Kos- 
ciusko, soon reduced it to a state of 
discipline and raised it to a degree 
of prosperity it had not possessed 
for many years. Kosciusko took 
part in the battle of Zulence, June 
18, 1792, and that of Dubinako 
July 17, of the same year, where 
with only 4,000 men he kept at bay 
15,000 Russians for six hours, and 
finally succeeded in making his re- 
treat without great loss. 

But the Polish patriots were now 
so greatly outnumbered that King 
Stanislaus submitted to the second 
partition rather than sacrifice the 
last remnant of Polish chivalry 
which had in former ages so nobly, 
so gallantly, and so successfully 
defended the whole of Europe from 
the destroying hands of the Turks. 

Kosciusko retired to Leipsic 
where citizenship was conferred on 
him by the French Convention. 
But he could not remain quiet at 
the thought of suffering Poland, so 
he determined to strike one blow 
more in her defence. An uprising of 
the Poles having been secretly 
planned, Kosciusko was elected dic- 
tator and commander of all the 

On the 24th of March he suddenly 
appeared at Cracow, issued a man- 

ifesto against the*Russians, hastily 
collected 5,000 of his countrymen, 
and having met 10,000 Russians at 
Raclawice, signally defeated them 
and returned in triumph to Cracow. 
His band was soon increased by 
new arrivals to 13,000, so leaving 
the government in the hands of a 
tribunal selected by himself, he 
went in search of the Russian army. 
On his march he was attacked by 
the King of Prussia with 40,000 
men and forced to retire within the 
walls of Warsaw, where he was be- 
seiged by the combined forces of 
Russia and Prussia; Kosciusko, 
however, forced them to retire with- 
out capturing the city! Catholic 
Austria now took part against 
him; his troops were routed at 
Maciejowice, October 10, 1794 and 
he himself fell, covered with 
wounds. He was found by the 
Russians after the battle and was 
thrown into a dungeon, to the 
eternal disgrace of the Empress 

After an imprisonment of over 
two years he was released by her 
successor Paul who wished him to 
accept his sword and 50,000 du- 
cats. He refused the money as a 
bribe, and handing back his sword, 
said: "I do not need my sword 
since I have no longer a country to 
defend." He was afterwards pre- 
sented with the sword of John 
Sobieski by his countrymen in the 
French army. 

He visited the United States in 
1797, where he was received with 
honor and distinction. 

The remainder of his life was 
passed in retirement, partly at 
Fontainbleau and partly at Solo- 
thorn in Switzerland. 

When Napoleon was about to in- 
vade Russia he wished to commis- 
sion Kosciusko, who, being under 
parole not to bear arms against 
Russia, indignantly refused. 

He subsequently declared Napol- 
eon's proclamation to the Poles to 
be a forgery. After his death, 
which was caused by the fall of his 



horse over a precipice, his remains 
were interred by the emperor Paul, 
along- side of those of Sobieski and 
Poniatowski, in the cathedral of 
Cracow. A mound was raised to 
his honor near that city, the earth 
of which was brought from every 
great battle-field of Poland. 

With Kosciusko perished all hope 
of Poland's liberty. Torn to pieces 
by her powerful rivals, Russia, Prus- 
sia and Austria, she soon lost her 
identity, and now the kingdom of 
Poland is a thing of the past. 

Kosciusko was among the last 
defenders of that suffering country, 
and now Poland lies asleep waiting 
for another Kosciusko to lead her 
to freedom and to place her on an 
equal footing with her sister king- 

Such was in brief the life of Thad- 
deus Kosciusko; a knight without 
fear and without reproach, and one 
of the most devoted sons of liberty 
in any age, clime or country. 

E. T. Fitzgerald. 


'T was during the time when the 
Irish and English were at war 
with one another that the fol- 
lowing occurrence took place. 
The French, who were aiding 
the Irish, after a long and te- 
dious march, had encamped for the 
night and the whole army was 
wrapt in slumber. 

In a certain tent, larger than the 
rest, four or five young officers sat 
quaffing the cheering wine, for it 
was a dark, chilly night in the 
month of December. In their 
midst sat a veteran officer who was, 
judging by the eager attention 
which he attracted, relating some 
strange adventure. 

It was a ghost story, and the 
faces of his auditors turned a shade 
paler and sterner than was wont in 
ordinary conversation. A close 
observer might, by the dim light 
which cast its flickering rays 
throughout the tent, notice two 
officers who were almost exactly 
alike in their manly faces and physi- 
cal appearance, and would un- 
doubtedly pronounce them to be 
brothers, and such they were. 

At the end of the tale one of 
the brothers exclaimed: "Pshaw! 
these ghost-adventures are all fool- 
ishness; who ever heard of the 
like?" And the other thereupon 
said: "If you want to be convinced 
of the truth, go to the old church- 

yard at midnight; for 'tis the com- 
mon belief that three ghosts, at 
that hour, arise from their graves 
and walk their solitary rounds." 

The young officer signified his as- 
sent and went out to make prepa- 
rations for his visit, meanwhile 
leaving his pistols on the table. In 
a short time he came back, and 
having girded on his sword and 
weapons, sprang lightly on his 
coal-black charger and trotted 
slowly off. The night was unus- 
ually cold and chilly. The moon 
was moving slowly down the west- 
ern sky, casting its mellow rays on 
the pine-tops and reflecting their 
shadows like so many gaunt im- 
ages on the snow-covered earth, 
while the wind whistled through the 
trees sending a chill through the 
frame of the brave young officer. 
Riding slowly on and meditating 
deeply on the events of the evening he 
soon perceived a dark mass lower- 
ing on one side of the road which 
he at once conjectured to be the old 

After fastening his horse to a tree 
by the wayside he vaulted lightly 
over the fence surrounding the 
burial place and found himself 
standing amidst tombstones and 
graves. He looked musingly upon 
the old dilapidated building whose 
half-ruined walls were mantled with 
ivy; then buttoning his great coat 



tight around him, sat upon the 
nearest tombstone and awaited the 
ghosts. Lon<>; lie sat reflecting on 
the evening conversation until the 
warning announced to him the ap- 
proach of the midnight hour; then 
the bell struck twelve. As the last 
chime died away on the breezes, 
three figures, draped, as it were, in 
white, sprang up from the ground 
in different directions, all gliding 
slowly towards him. Not the least 
shadow of a fear penetrates the 
breast of the stalwart young sol- 
dier at the sight of these appari- 
tions, approaching him on all sides, 
and drawing his pistol he coolly 
awaited them. When within a few 
paces of him he cried: "Stop, or I 
fire!" Still the ghosts came on, 
and he, aiming at the nearest, fired. 
With a slow and weird movement 

the figure raised one hand to its 
mouth, and taking from thence the 
bullet, hurled it back at the officer. 
Nothing daunted, the latter drew 
his sword and in a fearless voice 
again exclaimed: "Another step 
and I will run you through!" 
Another step they took and the 
sword flashed for a second in the 
moonlight, then descending with 
the rapidity of lightning, laid the 
foremost figure a corpse at his feet. 
Hurriedly he stooped and dashing 
the mask from the face of the fallen 
ghost, saw the features of his 
brother calm in death. 

Uttering a heart-rending cry the 
officer turned and walked away, 
leaving the two remaining spectres 
to behold the fatal consequences of 
their practical joke. 

Jas. P. Armstrong. 


ISTORY is a narration of 
past events, from which we 
may with a little labor, de- 
rive a great amount of use- 
ful knowledge. We do not 
look to history mainly for 
elegance of style; nor do w r e there 
expect to find thrilling romances. 
It is a study, and to benefit by it 
we should endeavor to receive solid 
information and sound doctrine. 
History commences with the begin- 
ning of the race, and will last till 
its end. 

Although the study of history is 
so beneficial to the knowledge of 
mankind, it is sometimes mislead- 
ing, and without direction and cau- 
tion one may be easily led astray. 
There are many historians, and be- 
fore studying his work we should 
first study the author. An histo- 
rian may be learned, renowned as a 
writer, but at the same time his 
fundamental principles may be 
wrong, [f we choose a history of 
his we may not detect the poison 
which is hidden by brilliancy of 
style and elegance of language, but 

like one reading a thrilling ro- 
mance, we imbibe the poison that 
fills its pages. 'Tis true these au- 
thors may possess a certain merit, 
but as I have said, we do not seek 
merely literary excellence in a his- 
tory; we there look for unmixed 
truth. Therefore w T e must be made 
aware of the poison that a history 

To see at a glance and to 
be able to judge of historical 
writings, we will divide the histo- 
rians into three distinct classes. 
To the first class belong Fatalistic 
historians, so called because they 
believe that whatever happens is 
fated to be so. Those belonging to 
this class are to be the most dreaded, 
for their works are tainted with 
skepticism, and those who follow 
their principles are more than apt 
to fall into this error. Secondly 
comes the Descriptive school. To 
this class belong many of the best 
historians. Their descriptions are 
vivid, clear and true, and the 
reader can, at first sight, pass a 
right judgment upon them. To the 



third and last class belong the Ju- 
dicial historians. Here the author 
assumes his real position — that of 
judge. He considers all questions, 
studies both sides of them, and 
then, devoid of prejudices, gives his 
rightful opinion. 

We have thus far shown how 
history is to be studied, and what 
histories are to be studied. It 
now remains for us to call atten- 
tion to some of the advantages 
we derive from this study. These 
are beautifully enumerated by 
Cicero, who says: 

"Historia est testis temporum, 
lux veritatis, vita memorise, mag- 
istra vitse, nuntia vetustatis." 

Time flies by, and leaves no trace 
behind; even the monument erected 
by man as memorials of the past, 
will, in the course of time perish 
and be lost in the dust of ages. He 
goes on to say: 

"If many of the greatest men 
have been exceedingly careful to 
leave their statues and pictures, — 
these representations, not of their 
minds, but of their bodies; ought 
not we to be much more desirous of 
leaving the portraits of our enter- 
prises and virtues drawn and fin- 
ished by the most eminent writers?" 

Were it not for history we should 
be in perfect ignorance of what has 
happened from the beginning of the 
world until now. Like many a 
precious gem that lies hidden with- 
in the dark recesses of the earth, so 
the past and all its associations 
would be were it not for history — 
that great "testis temporum." His- 
tory places before our minds a map 
of the past which teaches us to live 
in the present, and look forward to 
a joyous future. It is that bright 
star of truth that adds many a ray 
to the brilliant lis;ht of knowledge. 

We are reading history, and the 
deeper we get into its contents, the 
more -we become immersed in the 
tangled walks of ages, long since 
passed away; then does indulgent 
memory awake, and the beings of 
whom we read seem to stand before 
us in life; everything seems to be 
enacted again, but more delicately 
defined is each scene, than the 
reality. Yes, history too, is the 
life of memory, and what is sweeter 
than the pleasure afforded by mem- 
ory? Well might the poet, enume- 
rating the pleasures of memory, 
break forth: 

"Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know, 
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, 
When nature fades and life forgets to charm; 
Thee would the muse invoke!— to thee belong 
The sage's precept, and the poet's song. 
What softened views thy magic glass reveals, 
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight 

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 
Long on the wave reflected lustres play; 
Thy tempered beams of happiness resigned, 
Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind." 

History too, affords us many ex- 
amples in the lives of great men 
that prove to us that we also may 
rise to that high station in life that 
they once held. 'Tis true they 
have long since passed away, and 
their bodies lie at rest in a cold 
grave; but they have left a name 
immortalized by great and heroic 
deeds. Can we. not see them now, 
pouring their hearts' blood into 
channels of public prosperity, and 
breathing their spirits into the in- 
stitutions of their country? 

The bodies of those who once 
wielded the sword in defence of their 
liberty may now lie motionless; the 
eloquent lips that sustained it may 
be hushed; but the lofty spirits that 
maintained it cannot expire— 

"These shall resist the empire of decay, 
When time is o'er, and worlds have pa->sed away; 
Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie, 
But that which warmed it once can never die." 

M. Mahorner. 

i i i i i 1 1 1 j 

1 1 1 1 1 ii i_i ii ii i 



Home of my youth ! To me how dear! 

How thy loved haunts I prize ! 
How dear thy lake, so cool and clear, 

How fair thy azure skies ! 
But not for these would I return, 

Thy verdant fields to roam ; 
Thou hast a sweeter charm for me — 

Thou wert my college home ! 

Thy playground in its sandy wealth 

In dreams I see to-day 
Where, as a boy, in rosy health, 

Once' more I fain would play. 
But not for it, though dear to me, 

Nor for its sandy loam 
Sweet Spring Hill do I cling to thee — 

Thou wert my college home! 

I've stood in many a learned vale 

Renowned for classic lore ; 
In Georgetown, Harvard, Fordham, Yale, 

By West Point's beauteous shore 
And in Potomac's naval school 

Where heroes oft did roam. 
But none were half so dear to me 

As thou, my college home! 

And thou art bound to me by ties 

Which claim more tender love, 
For in thy halls I learned to prize 

And seek "The things above." 
And thou didst school my youthful mind 

To love the classic tome. 
These, these have bound my heart to thee 

My own, my college home ! 

And in thy halls I found a friend, 

A friend both true and tried, 
On whom, till death I can depend 

In whom I can confide ; 
Whose kindly interest follows me 

Where'er my footsteps roam. 
This priceless gift I owe to thee, 

My loved, my college home! 

O, cherished shrine, O, nurse of youth, 

Long may thy precincts be 
The home of learning, peace and truth, 

That truth "which" maketh free." 
And may thy children ever prove 

Where'er on earth they roam 
Unto thy teachings always true, 

My own, my college home. 

— R. H. W. 





'T was on the 4th of July, in early 
morning when we arrived at Ni- 
agara Falls en route to New 
York. After breakfast we 
went for a drive around the 
Falls. Hardly had we been 
an hour when the roaring 
of the Falls was heard in the dis- 
tance. The sky, like a vast sea, 
seemed almost green, by the effect 
of reflection, from the verdure of 
woods and fields. In the words 
of Thompson : 

"To breathe was to inhale name- 
less thrills, perfumes, dreams. To 
see was to entertain indescribable 
apparitions of beauty. To hear 
was to revel in a broad, tender, 
softly flowing tide of melody. 
Merely to exist gave a sense of 
blending with nature in her most 
perfect mood." 

It was a pleasant sight to behold 
the beauties of nature as we passed 
from village to village, from town 
to town and from city to city. But 
before entering into details upon 
the beauties of the scenery along 
the Hudson, it might be well to 
speak of a few of the points of inter- 
est at Niagara Falls, were it not 
that they are so well known, and 
described by so many writers that 
in speaking of them I only impair 
their renown instead of adding 
anything to it. However, the view 
of the American rapids, I think, is 
one of the most wonderful things 
the human eye ever beheld . There we 
see a vast sheet of water rolling and 
tumbling over the rocks and falling 
to the depth of several hundred feet. 
Thus amusing myself watching the 
Falls and whirlpool rapids, known 
to the later writers as the last 
place where Captain Webb was seen, 
I spent the greater part of my day. 
Soon night had taken possession of 
the land; I with my companions 
stood on Suspension bridge watch- 
ing the foamy waters flow restlessly 
on. There was neither moon nor 
star, there was only a dull gray 

dusk that crept down from the 
sky and stole noiselessly over the 
waters. Next morning we were on 
our way to New York ; and leav- 
ing Niagara and Buffalo in the 
distance, in a few hours we were 
in sight of the Hudson, that 
beautiful river surnamed the Rhine 
of America, which has often been 
the theme for pen and pencil. Its 
beautiful scenery, as well as its 
name, has won the praise of Ameri- 
can writers for the past century. 
The traveller, after clearing the 
pine covered hills west of Utica, 
enters upon a broad and beautiful 
valley, and then the soft and 
rounded hills, the generous mead- 
ows, the wide and placid river 
glide by in a succession of 
charming scenes of rural beauty. 
The places and points of interest 
along the Hudson are too numer- 
ous to dwell upon, but one place 
especially, that is worthy of men- 
tion is Little Falls; here the road, 
the canal, and the river dispute for 
a pass through the castellated 
rocky hills, and then the broad 
valley spreads wide again. To the 
thoughtful traveller this lovely 
Mohawk country presents many 
features of peculiar interest. It is 
evident that the greater part of it 
is an agricultural region and yet 
every town along the way seems 
absorbed in manufacture. The 
towns appear to be small cities, for 
the brick blocks and huge factories 
stand among the farms. The very 
smoke from the tall chimneys drifts 
over the pastures and orchards, 
and the people seem equally 
divided between manufactures and 
harvests. Pursuing oar journey, 
these pastures and orchards were 
soon left behind, and the scenery 
was exchanged for one which is 
considered by a great many to be 
all that the heart of man can de- 
sire. It is the blending of the river 
and the Catskills. Here the scenery 
is almost beyond description. We 



can but behold the Rhine of 
America flowing peacefully on, with 
the green, shaggy mountains tow- 
ering high above it and casting a 
dark shadow far out on the blue 
waters. But soon we met with 

a disappointment. My companions 
and I, like many other travellers,, 
were shut off from the beauties and 
scenery of the Hudson, by our 
entrance into New York. 

T. Cassidy. 


PRING is the prettiest and 
most interesting season of 
the year. The trees shoot 
forth their tender buds, the 
birds twitter joyfully amidst 
the thickening foliage; in fact 
all nature seems to revel in its 
beauty, in its luxuriance, and mag- 
nificence. How smiling the appear- 
ance of nature! It has donned a 
robe of freshest green, and not a 
trace of its recent bleakness and 
bareness remains. This very bleak- 
ness, so associated with Winter, is 
an excellent preparative. The 
glories of Spring seem new and 
strange to us. We compare, we 
note the gradual transition by 
which Winter, as it were, blends 
with Spring; a sense of change 
steals over us, and we for the first 
time realize that Winter is gone, 
that Spring, the season of joy and 
sunshine is upon us. Extending 
our gaze as far as it can reach, 
nothing but beautiful scenes meet 
the eye. The rippling stream, the 
unbroken forest, the rugged moun- 
tains, seem to receive fresh life and 
animation on the approach of 
Spring. To a sportsman or fisher- 
man the return of Spring brings re- 
newed anticipation of pleasure to 
be realized in wandering along the 
noiseless streams, or in treading 
the mazes and intricacies of a ver- 
dant forest. Flowers, the delight- 
ful odor of which is conveyed to 
our senses by the morning breeze, 
spring up and take root not 
merely on the le,vel plane, but 
also on the rocky steep, or 

in still more sterile places where 
sunshine but rarely penetrates. 
Dear to the hearts of many, this 
season still further attracts the 
Christian heart by the recollection 
of events which fill with gratitude 
the minds of those who have ex- 
perienced the undying love of Him 
who, uniting a divine with a human 
nature, appeared to save, to redeem 
us from the pains of hell. For in 
this genial season surrounded by 
the beauties of a Spring day He 
laid down his life for us. 

Many witness with pleasure the 
return of this lovely season, but 
few are they who remember that 
May is most dear to Mary, the 
mother of God, and consequently 
twice blessed to the Catholic 
Church. As the most joyous and 
beautiful month of the year, 
we rejoice in its approach, as 
the month of Mary we venerate it. 
This season then, not only over-, 
flows with pleasures and joys, but 
also contains the blessed month of 
Mary. Some fail to recognize its 
charms but these are few; and are, 
for the most part, men who, insen- 
sible to beauty, indulge in merely 
material A'iews and desires. Sum- 
mer, Autumn and Winter are 
marked by different qualities, and 
bring varied blessings and pleas- 
ures in their train, but upon Spring 
we linger, and sigh as happy events 
are recalled to our memory by the 
chirping birds, by the blooming 
flowers, by the bright days of 
sunshine, of hope, of unalloyed 
happiness. Carroll Smith. 





(Oj^/HAT we may better illus- 
jHfl) trate the spirit of American 
^&J poetry, we shall take for ex- 
ample the works of our 
greatest poet Henry Wads- 
worth Longfellow. 
Longfellow was born in Portland, 
Maine, on the 27th of February, 
1807. He was the second son of 
a large and prosperous family ; 
surrounded by the sweet New Eng- 
land society which the beautiful lit- 
tle town of Portland then afforded, 
he passed his boyhood years in a 
most happy manner. Even while 
still very young he began to dis- 
play great talent for literature. 
He was fond of reading, and fortu- 
nately his father's library supplied 
him with the best books. In 1822 
he entered Bowdoin College where 
he distinguished himself by his 
studious disposition, amiable char- 
acter, and especially as aji English 

After completing his education he 
began the study of law under his 
father, but the poet did not long- 
follow this profession, for from the 
first his whole bent of character 
and talents was literary. In 1825 
he accepted the professorship of 
modern languages in his Alma Ma- 
ter, and to prepare himself for this 
high position he went abroad in 
1826. A few years later he re- 
signed his position in Bowdoin 
College to accept the chair of rhet- 
oric and literature in Harvard Uni- 
versity. Here he spent the greater 
part of his life, which was devoted 
to hard literary study and to the 
production of those poems by 
which he has immortalized his 
name. Several works of prose also 
came from his pen, the principal of 
which is "Outre Mer," or a "Pil- 
grimage Beyond the Sea." 

It was not as a prose writer, 
however, that Longfellow obtained 
that name so dear to English 

speaking people. We may search 
the picture galleries of kings, but 
nowhere will we find a more beauti- 
ful scene than the one presented to 
our minds by the poems of Long- 
fellow. First comes Evangeline in 
all her beauty. Can we imagine a 
more devoted and lovely character 
than she presents to our minds? 
There, hard at work, stands the 
Village Blacksmith, a most worthy 
personage. Yonder, climbing the 
rugged mountain's side, is a noble 
youth— the bearer of that mysteri- 
ous banner on which "Excelsior" is 
written in golden letters. There 
towering high into the sky stands 
The Belfry of Burges. Listen to 
the heavenly chime of its bells, and 
see the crowds of people that enter 
the sacred chapel below. There, 
standing upon the open plain and 
gazing westward is Hiawatha. 
That is Paul Rivere galloping in 
the gray dawn of the morning. 
And thus we could go on with de- 
light, passing in review the multi- 
tude of beautiful pictures that 
adorn the Longfellow gallery. 

Now that we have given a short 
sketch of the life of him who is Avell 
nigh universal in his sympathies, 
and so is beloved by all men, it yet 
remains for us to exhibit the real 
nature and spirit of his works. In 
America, poetry is but of a recent 
growth, consequently it has not yet 
reached the zenith of power which 
we find in that literature which is 
the growth of centuries. Like one 
in the recesses of some unexplored 
abyss, who moves along without 
the slenderest thread to steady his 
steps, so the proet in America is lost 
among the very abundance of his 
materials, and bewildered, he is at 
a loss what to choose for his topic. 
Is he to search for subjects among 
the interests of the day? or to sit 
down in the shades of antiquity 
amid the ruins of ancient cities? 



Should he hope to reach something 
wholly new, or, like others of his 
class, is he to seek models in the old 
world? Some critics claim that the 
American poet should endeavor to 
establish in his country a literature 
wholly national. They argue that 
he should choose such subjects as 
will add to the formation of a lit- 
erature commensurate with our 
picturesque mountains and beauti- 
ful rivers— commensurate with Ni- 
agara and the Alleghanies and the 
great lakes. They also claim that 
if a. literature is not national it is 
nothing worth. On the contrary, 
for though nationality is praise- 
worth in a poet, universality is the 
foundation of all literature. It is not 
nationality, but universality in the 
poets of great countries that has 
achieved for them the favor of their 
readers. We may refer either to 
ancient times or modern, and in 
poetry of the highest order we will 
find that the universal element ex- 
ists as the basis of human interests, 
and that the national element is 
but an addition. Longfellow him- 
self said: "Let us be natural and 
we shall be national enough." His 
own poetry is national wherever he 
has chosen his subjects in America, 
but in many instances he has wan- 
dered from his right point of view 
to enter upon the thoughts and 
customs of other periods. Conse- 
quently his works have not only 
gained the favor of his country's 
people, but they are read with 
equal admiration by the English 
speaking world. 

His poems not only possess the 
universality so essential to a poet, 
but they are filled with that sweet 
lucidity which is so apt to win the 
approbation of his readers. 1 1 is 
verse has been characterized as— 
"simple, sincere, sympathetic, clear 
as crystal and pure as snow," and 
it may be justly said that "Long- 
fellow has taught more people bo 
love poetry than any other English 
writer, however great.'' His po- 
etry has carried sweetness and 

light to thousands of homes. 

The best known of Longfellow's 
poems is "Evangeline" a simple, 
pathetic love story, filled with the 
most touching descriptions of the 
banishment of the original colonists 
of Acadia from their humble home- 
steads and modest earthly posses- 

The following lines are descrip- 
tive of the Acadian Village of 
Grand-Pre, and the peace and con- 
tentment of the simple inhabitants 
before English cruelty drove them 
hence : 

"There in the midst of its farms reposed the 

Acadian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak 

and of chestnut, 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the 

reign of the Henries. 
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer- windows; 

and gables projecting 
Over the basement below protected and shaded the 

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when 

brightly the sunset 
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on 

the chimneys, 
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and 

in kirtles 
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning 

the golden 
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles 

within dooi\s 
Mingled their sound with the whir of the "wheels 

and the songs of the maidens. 
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, 

and the children 
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended 

to bless them. 
Reverend walked he among thorn; and up rose 

matrons and maidens, 
Hailing his slow approach with words of affec- 
tionate welcome. 
Then came the laborers home from the held, and 

serenely the sun sank 
Down to rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from 

the belfry 
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of 

the village 
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace 

ami coutentment. 
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian 

farmers,— » 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man." 

He also narrates in a most pitiful 
manner the sufferings of those 
torn away from their families 
in that dreadful hour, and who 
after many dreary years of hard- 
ships, found their way back to 
their native soil, there to spend the 
last days of a faded life and to re- 
pose in peace near the graves of 
their forefathers. 

"Scattered were they, like Hakes of snow, when 

the winds from the northeast 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the 

hank> of the Newfoundland. 




Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from 

city to city, 
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern 

savannas, — 
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where 

the Father of Waters 
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down 

to the ocean, 
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of 

the mammoth. 
Friends they sought and homes; and many, despair- 
ing, heart-broken, 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a 

friend nor a hreside. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in 

the churchyards." 

But the great charm of the poem 
lies in the character of Evangeline, 
which teaches us that the qualities 
of patience and devotedness are 
only great when exercised with 
religious purity. 

"Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy 
work of affection ! 

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endu- 
rance is godlike c" 

Can we imagine any delineation 
more touching than that of this 
young maiden accompanied by the 
aged priest of Grand Pre wander- 
ing from land to land in search 
of her betrothed, and continu- 
ing that search till youth had 
faded into old age? There is 
another striking incident in this 
poem that cannot fail to impress 
itself upon the memory of those 
who have read it. This is the fact 
that the very object we mainly seek 
in this life may often lie within a 
hand's breadth of us but uncon- 
sciously we pass it by unnoticed. 
The passage to which 1 allude is 
that one in which the youth, way- 
worn and wearied, sails along the 
Mississippi past a little woody 
island on whose shore lay the 
maiden and her companions 
wrapped in the gentle slumbers of 

" Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of 
the island, 

But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of 

So that they saw not the boat, where it lay con- 
cealed in the willows, 

All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and 
vinseen, were the sleepers, 

Angel of God was there none to awaken the slum- 
bering maiden." 

He passes heedlessly on and they 
meet no more till that last hour 
when she, a sister of charity recog- 
nizes him, an aged man, in the last 
agonies of death. 

"So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed 

Ended to recommence no more upon earth, uncom- 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her 

thoughts and her footsteps, 
As from a mountain's top, the rainy mists of the 

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape 

before us, 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers, and cities, and 

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the 

world far below her. 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and 

the pathway 
Which she climbed so far lying smooth and fair 

in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was 

his image, 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last 

she beheld him; 
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence 

and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it 

"was not. 
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, 

but transfigured; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, 

and not absent; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to 

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had 

taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous 

Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air 

with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to 

Meekly, with reverend steps, the sacred feet of 

her Saviour." 

Many pages could be given to the 
descriptions of this pure gem of 
literature, but other poems require 
a few words before concluding, 
hence I shall call the attention of 
my readers only to one or two of 
those which are especially pleasing 
to the children of the South. It is 
commonly said that Longfellow 
never visited the scenes he so beau- 
tifully describes; it is doubtful, 
indeed, whether his descriptions of 
Louisiana would have been more 
graphic had the poet been an eye 
witness of all his pen so charm- 
ingly portrays. 

"Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests 

of fruit trees; 
Under the feet a garden of llowers, and the bluest 

of heavens 
Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls 

of the forest. 
They who dwell there have named it the Eden 

of Louisiana." 

* * * * *• j» * 

No description of the mocking- 
bird, can equal that of our poet. 

"Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking 

bird, wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er 

the water, 
Shook from his little throat such iloods of delirious 

That the whole air and the woods and the waves 

seemed silent to listen. 



Plaintive at first were the v tones and sad; then 

soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied 

Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low, 

Till, having gathered them all, he Hung them 

abroad with derision, 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the 

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower 

on the branches." 

Longfellow's Hiawatha \\|hich 
was published in the year 1855, is 
a pleasing Indian legend written in 
trochaic tetrameter. It is consid- 
ered by some as his principal poem, 
and the one by which he mainly 
gained his reputation as a poet. 
Space does not alio »v us to consider 
it more in detail. Of Longfellow's 
minor poems "The Building of the 
Ship" is, I think, the most worthy 
of attention. Here the poet imita- 
ting Horace, represents his coun- 
try under the image of a ship. Day 
after day an old man and his son 
bind together the mighty beams 
which they have hewn in the dis- 
tant forest; what was once but 
rough timbers is now being shaped 
into the graceful form of a mighty 
ship. At last the day of launching 
the new built vessel dawns clear 
and serene. On the shore all rigged 
in her bridal splendor the stately 
ship awaits the hour when she shall 
be received into the arms of the 
sea. Innumerable streamers and 
flags that adorn her lofty masts 
are fanned by a joyous breeze, and 
crowds of revellers flock to the sur- 
rounding shores. There she stands 
ready to be wedded to the ocean. 

•'Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State, 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 

Humanity with all its fears, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 

We know what master laid thy keel, 

What workman wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

What anvils rung, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge, and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! 


" In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, are all with thee! " 

Thus we have endeavored to 
show the favor gained by the uni- 
versal sympathies of our greatest 
poet, whose name is blended with 
our holiest affections, and our im- 
mortal hopes. As a proof of Long- 
fellow's universality we have the 
words of Cardinal Wiseman, who 
says: "Our hemisphere cannot 
claim the honor of having brought 
him forth; but still he belongs to 
us, for his works have become as 
household words wherever the 
English language is spoken. And 
whether we are charmed by his 
imagery, or soothed by his melodi- 
ous versification, or elevated by the 
high moral teachings of his pure 
Muse, or follow with sympathizing 
hearts the wanderings of Evange- 
line, I am sure that all who have 
read his works will join with me in 
the tribute I desire to pay the 
genius of Longfellow." 

M. Mahokner, 


Indorum t'ugitiva tribus prope litora fertur 

Nostra stetisse, petens flumina, rura, Lares. 
Quum saltus, virides campos, liquidum aethera mirans, 

Sic sociis clamat dux: "Alabama, viri! " 
Scilicet: "Hie cessat labor, his requiescimus oris, 

Hrec regio exulibus patria dulcis erit." 
Hinc insigne tibi, tellus gratissima, nomen, 

Quod laudasse minus quam meruisse cupis, 
Hoc casulse inscriptum, tumidisque affulgeat aulis, 

Hoc puer, hoc juvenis prasdicet atque senex. 
Dicatur btrepitu Boreas Zephyrique susurro, 

Et cantu volucrum et murmure jugis aqua:. 
Felix terra nimis tanto cognomine digna! 

Quippe et coelicolis est "Alabama," polus. 



[a. l. waterman, s. J.] 

Wecj) not for him who dieth, 

For he sleeps and is at rest, 
And the couch whereon he lieth 

Is the green earth's quiet breast." 

Mrs. Norton, 

'T is with a mournful heart that 
I narrate the death of a mem- 
ber of our class of '91. Lit- 
tle did we think when we stood 
together upon the stage to 
bid our old Alma Mater fare- 
well, that so soon one of our 
number would be called to his 
eternal home. But such are the in- 
scrutable ways of Providence ; and 
I now, to my great surprise, find 
myself writing these few lines as a 
token of honor and remembrance 
of our friend and fellow class-mate 
Louis Alfred Waterman. 

Mr. Waterman was a native of 
Louisiana, born in 1872. After 
attending several schools he matric- 
ulated at Spring Hill College and 
graduated with the class of '91. 

Soon after entering this College 
he gained for himself a name for tal- 
ent and ability; but as most boj^s 
are, he was wild and ready for all 
kinds of mischief, subject at times, 
however, to spells of melancholic 

On his promotion to philosophy 
he became more serious and sedate; 
more so after the retreat given dur- 
ing the session of '90 and '91, 
which produced a marked impres- 
sion on him. From this time he 
was looked upon as a model young 

As now the time for his departure 
ironi the fostering care of the Col- 

lege was drawing nigh, and being 
aware that he would have to go 
forth to battle amidst the realities 
of life, he began to give the subject 
of his vocation serious deliberation, 
and he soon saw that "Life is but 
an empty dream and the grave is 
not its goal." He consequently de- 
termined to devote his life to the 
greater glory of God, to make rep- 
aration for his past ingratitude to 
his Creator by entering the Society 
of Jesus. But, however, before 
making this momentous step, he 
went into a retreat for several days 
to reconsider the action he was 
about to perform, and came out 
more determined than ever. After 
settling his temporal affairs he left 
the city of New Orleans for the 
novitiate at Macon, Ga., where he 
spent but a brief time before he was 
called to enjoy the hundred-fold 
promised to those who leave all for 
the love of God. 

On December 10, 1891, after an 
illness of several days, strengthened 
by the consolations of our holy 
religion with those sacred vows 
which made of him a member of the 
Society of Jesus, fresh upon his lips, 
our dear friend and fellow graduate 
died a most happy death. 

A friend and fellow classmate, 
Karl Heusnek. 

[R. I. P.] 

!!!!!:: I!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!! i!!:i!!!iiii 




N the hurry and bustle of 
life of our modern cities, 
there are few who ask them- 
selves, what is it that has made 
their native city, what is its 
past history, or who were its 
founders. I do not think that the 
people of Mobile, although possess- 
ing many noble qualities, form any 
exception to this very general rule. 
How few there are who can tell why 
Bienville Square was so called ! Yet 
there are many who enjoy the cool 
shade of the green oaks of the 
square, but who never think why 
the name Bienville should be at- 
tached to it more than any other. 
Mobile has an honorable history, 
and the name Bienville, should not 
be forgotten in her annals. Such, 
I do not believe, will ever be the 
case; for it appears as if 'her patri- 
otic citizens have united together to 
prevent this. Two of the city's 
most distinguished public works 
now bear the name of its founder. 
Bienville Water Works and Bien- 
ville Square, and they will serve to 
perpetuate a name dear to the breast 
of every Mobilian . 

Jean Baptiste le Moyne sieur de 
Bienville was born in Montreal, 
23d of February, 1680. W T hen a 
mere lad he gave evidence of his 
courage in a naval battle off the 
coast of New England, in which he 
was severely wounded. 

In 1698 his eldest brother, Iber- 
ville obtained a charter from the 
French government, to found a col- 
ony at the mouth of the Mississippi, 
and in the same year left France on 
that mission, taking with him his 
two brothers, Sauvilleand Bienville. 
The first settlement was made at 
Biloxi, and over this Sauville was 
placed governor. Biem r ille, in the 
meantime, being occupied in explor- 
ing the surrounding country. 

In 1700 he built a fort a short 
distance from Biloxi, which he 
called Mobile. Sauville dying the 

next year, Bienville, in accordance 
with the orders of his government, 
transferred the seat of authority 
from Biloxi to Mobile which was 
made the capital of Louisiana. 
Louisiana then embraced more than 
the limits of the present state. But 
New Orleans, founded some twenty 
years later, also by Bienville, soon 
surpassed Mobile in commercial im- 
portance and became, instead of 
Mobile, the capital city of Louis- 

Mobile, like most other settle- 
ments at that time, had hard strug- 
gles. Sickness, famine and raids by 
the neighboring tribes of Indians 
were frequent. The Choctaws were 
not pleased with the inroads of civ- 
ilization which diminished their 
hunting grounds, and drove the 
game from the forests. Of that 
tribe, which once threatened the de- 
struction of the colony, there now 
remains only the name. 

The struggling settlers, more than 
once, were about to lose heart and 
move to the more prosperous set- 
tlement at New Orleans, but were 
dissuaded by Bienville who assisted 
them in their struggles. 

The English incited the Chicka- 
saws to attack the village, and the 
colonists, in repelling their attack, 
were assisted by the Choctaws who 
h ad become more fav orable to them , 
and also by their true and tried 
friend, Bienville, who returned in 
1736, with troops to their aid. 

The growth of Mobile was still 
very slow, and forty years after its 
foundation, its population was only 
about 400 persons. This was in- 
creased by the arrival of a garrison 
of 400 French-and 75 Swiss sent by 
the governor of Louisiana. This, 
nevertheless, did not prevent the 
town from being wrested from the 
French government. 

The English had set their covet- 
ous eyes on the little hamlet, and 
with the help of the Indians, they 


finally captured the town in 1763. to the breeze, and Mobile was lost 
The new masters, however, did not forever to the Spanish crown ; Gen- 
retain their booty long for they soon eral Wilkinson taking possession of 
had to contend with a new rival. it in the name of the young but al- 

The Spaniards laid their claims, ready famous republic, 
backed by Spanish chivalry. Ber- The town gradually increased, and 
nard de Galvez captured the town was on the high road to commercial 
in 1780, and the dreaded banner of honor and prosperity, when the war 
Spain soon floated over the pali- of secession came, and, like an ava- 
sades of the fort. lanche, destroyed all her former re- 
More than eighty summers had nown, but not her hopes. Thrown 
passed and the little town had only back nearly a generation by this 
700 inhabitants. But under the sudden turn of events, and deprived 
Spanish rule it soon advanced, and of her laurels, her facilities for com- 
eight years later, we find its popu- merce, her geographical position, 
lation given at 1,408. The Span- her climate still remain, and all 
iards, like the English, did not keep tend to prove that, although long 
their prize long, for the settlement retarded, there is a glorious future 
soon passed into the hands of the for the Gulf City. 
United States Government. In 1812 J. 0. Connell. 
the stars and stripes were unfurled 


Sky tapering tree boldest of flowers, 

Thou'rt evergreen though bleak the time, 

Thou'rt ever found, springing 'midst bowers 
Or sylvan glen in Southern clime, 
Spotless Magnolia! 

Thy buds o'ertop earth-creeping flowers, 

The first to meet the solar ray, 
The first to cup April-like showers, 

Throwing their balmy scent away. 
Southern Magnolia! 

Let dew-crowned flowers fragrance expelling, 

With coral petal, damasked bright, 
Give way to thee — none there's excelling 

Thy perfumed chalice fair and white. 
Peerless Magnolia ! 

So stand the just : lowly gauds spurning 
Their mirrored lives, spotless and white, 

Their hearts elate, heavenwards e'er turning, 
Keeping the blissful realms in sight. 
Like the Magnolia! 

— D. McGinty, Jr. 






N connection with Father Yen- 
ni's violin, a strange fact is re- 
corded which comes from the 
the lips of Father Yenni him- 
On leaving his native Tyrol, 
he received from his aged father, as 
a parting gift, a beautiful Cremona 
fiddle. After the two years novitiate 
had expired, Superiors, owing* to the 
young Jesuit's remarkable talent 
for music, allowed him to keep his 
beloved Cremona and practice on it 
at stated hours. 

Ill '48, Father Yenni was obliged 
to take the road to exile, and the 
Cremona accompanied its gentle 

As a performer on the violin, 
Father Yenni had few superiors, 
and none that ever saw him stand- 
ing erect, amidst the youthful col- 

the bow 

lege musicians, 


with perfect ease and grace, and 
heard the exquisite notes of his 
Cremona can ever forget him. For 
over forty years he was, not only 
the main-stay, but the glory and 
pride of the college orchestra. 

Such was the attention with which 
Father Yenni treated the compan- 
ion of his exile, that he would not 
retire at night before he had put it 
in some prominent place, where it 
might be at hand incase of fire, and 
be rescued from the flames. But 
once in ten years did Father Yenni 
neglect this precaution. Fatigued 
by the day's work and overpowered 
by gentle sleep, he listened to the 
tempter's argument : "Remain still, 
college will not burn down to-night. " 
Alas! College did burn down that 
night and the well beloved Cremona 
perished in the flames. 


O fides laetum celebrate festum, 
Et modis chorda; resonent canoris 
Nunc pium patrem modulate lauda 
Barbite dulcis. 

Vos fides sacre cecinistis almum 
Orbis et coeli pie conditorem 
Incolas celsi placidos Olympi 
Actaque sancta. 

O fides blandae quoties molestas 
Cordium curas repulistis omnes 
Gaudio suavi quoties replestis 
Pectora nostra. 

Te Lyram cuncti canimus beatam 
Quae comes multos meruit per annos 
Esse curarum patris et dolorum 
Dulce levamen. 

O juventutis tenerae voluptas 
Et decus magnum senibus laborum 
Dulce lenimen, patris O perennis 
Gloria nostra. 

Ast manu quamvis tremula, per annos 
O pater multos fidium canores 
Tangito nervos, Dominus vocabit 
Donee ad alta. 

—A. B. 




ROM the time when, a lit- 
tle boy I first read Evange- 
line, I longed to visit the land 
of the pines and cypress — 
'•the golden coast,'' "the re- 
gion where dwells perpetual 
summer;" where the hearts of the 
sad Acadians, cheered by the mock- 
ingbird, wildest of singers,'' "glowed 
like the skies and the waters around 

The day I left my home is as fresh 
in my mind as if it were but yester- 
day. Never did I feel so deeply the 
pain, the bliss of parting. There 
was indeed the pain of leaving all 
that was near and dear to me on 
earth. My native hills, I knew 
I should not see for a long time, 
perhaps, I might never again be- 
hold them. But I think the bliss 
was greater, as my poetic soul ex- 
panded at the thought of having 
my long cherished desire at last car- 
ried out. I was going to the Sunny 
South. I was going to aland asso- 
ciated in my mind, with the groves 
of Horace and the visions of Dante. 
For the South— whether in Europe 
or America mattered not to me — 
was the seat of all that was noble 
in nature and art, 

I said good bye to my friends and 
kin, and as the train started, my 
pain and bliss became wonderfully 
commingled. I knew not whether 
to laugh or cry. I just had sense 
enough to shake a handkerchief out 
the window at my parents who were 
weeping bitterly. On went the train. 
By the time we got out of Provi- 
dence my tears were all dried up. 

Eagerly 1 

watched the 
saw the fresh 


scenery. I 
the North change for the lighter 
hues of the South . I saw my native 
hills and valleys fadefrom my sight. 
It was midnight, on the '30th of 
September, when we crossed the 
"Dixie Line." I felt very strange- 
like one coming into a foreign coun- 
try. In ray weii'd excitement I whis- 

pered, 'my native land, good-night.' 
But the next morning we were 'way 
past Virginia, down in the Caroli- 
nas. It was a real Southern morn- 
ing. The sunbeams glistening on 
the crests of the forests of pine and 
cypress told me where I was ; while 
the pure blue sky, in its cloudless 
glory, filled my soul with an exquis- 
ite joy, such as I imagine must have 
filled Dante with visions of Para- 

Toward noon, it is true, the 
weather began to feel uncomfort- 
ably warm, but I believe it must 
have been my Northern clothing 
that made me feel it so much. For 
certainly I have never since felt in 
the South that same prostration 
from the heat, which is felt in walk- 
ing the streets of the Northern me- 
tropolis. But I was hot that day 
anyhow, so I tried to amuse myself 
looking out at the cotton and to- 
bacco plantations, which were quite 
a novelty to me; and thoughts of 
slavery days came to my mind as I 
beheld the colored ploughman, la- 
boring in the fields, and the "piccan- 
inies" sitting on the fences staring 
out their eye-balls at us as we 
passed. But soon the sun went 
down, and a Southern night was 
upon us. 

O! my countrymen of the North ! 
What is night? Ye know not. It 
was on the pure blue heavens of a 
Southern clime thatSouthey gazed, 
when he exclaimed: "How beautiful 
is night! ' ' It was on a starry South- 
ern sky Ignatius of Lyola gazed, 
when he stood for hours on his porch 
drawing inspirations that moved 
the powers of the world . Everybody 
knows, I presume, that the sky has 
a different appearance in the South 
from what it has in the North. This 
is seen especially at night, when in 
the dark firmament the stars, like 
clustering gems, hang sparkling. 

I was inspired ; and was loath to go 
to bed . When I did go, my brain was 



still full of sublime thoughts. For- 
getting there was anybody around 
me, I began to give way to my feel- 
ings in strains like these : 

In spirit soaring 

Mine eyes I raise, 

Where the stars their night-watch keep 

Like angels adoring 

With steadfast gaze, 

On the broad eternal deep. 

But just when I thought I was 
soaring very high, alas! a thump 
from below and a growl to "shut 
up" "checked the genial current of 
my soul." 

What a pity ; I feel like swearing 
at that fellow, even now. for having 
cut short my inspiration. 

But the next morning, at three, 
we were awakened with the cry of 
"Mobile." My inspirations had 
certainly left me by that time, for I 
was anything but poetic when the 
cry awoke me. With all my enthus- 
iasm for the South I wished that 
Mobile was just then fifty miles off. 
However, I got out of the train, 
asked for the best hotel in the city, 
and made my way to the Battle 
House where I slept till noon. 

A new dummy line, from Mobile 
to Spring Hill, had just been fin- 
ished. I was one of the first to 
travel on it. As I got on the cars 
and told the conductor to let me 

out at the college, I was really wild 
with excitement. T wondered what 
kind of boys I was going to meet, 
and whether they would make fun 
of me for coming from the North, 
and call me a "bloody yankee," or 
anything of that kind. Lord, for- 
give me for entertaining such 
thoughts about these good-natured 
Southern boys. 

But while I was pondering these 
things, what should catch my eyes 
but a grand cupola towering among 
the trees in the distance. Needless 
to say, it was the object of my 
journey. Half an hour more and I 
walked up the road along the ravine 
until before me, surrounded by beau- 
tiful hedges and gardens of roses, 
and japonicas, amid vistas of water 
oaks, stood the time-honored walls 
of Spring Hill College. 

But my journey is at an end. I 
shall only mention that on the 
strength of my verses they put me 
in Belles Lettres, which makes me 
graduate this year. The boys have 
not called me "yankee," and it is 
too late for them now to begin. So, 
gentle reader, if .you have followed 
me all through my trip, 1 am much 

T. Hassidy. 



In foreign lands I sadly roam, 

And vainly seek delight, 
Fond memory brings me thoughts of home 

Which gleam like stars of night. 

My Sunny South, how dear thou art 

With all thy charms so sweet, 
When thy remembrance leaves my heart, 

That heart must cease to beat. 

Though fair the skies of Europe are, 

And beautiful each scene ; 
My Native land is dearer far, 

Its beauties more serene. 

Oh, soon I'll hail that much-loved shore, 

The land that gave me birth, 
And I will prize for evermore 

The dearest spot on earth. 

M. D. McGrath. 




the prince of Latin poets, was 
born at a village called An- 
des, about three miles from 
the city of Mantua, seventy 
years "before the birth of 
Christ. His early life was spent at 
Cremona, where he showed himself 
to be a favorite of the Muses, and 
manifested a genius, that one day 
was to rival the author of the Iliad. 
His multifarious learning, which 
shines so conspicuously in the 
yEneid, richly merited for him the eu- 
logy of Macrobius : "Virgilius quem 
nullius, unquam disciplinae error 
involvit." After the battle of Phil- 
ippi, Virgil's property was divided 
amongst the veteran soldiers of the 
army of Augustus. 

The cruel treatment Virgil receiv- 
ed at this time was the occasion of 
those highly classical effusions, 
commonly known as Eclogues or 
Bucolics. By Bucolics, we mean 
poems on the tending of cattle, or 
more freely pastoral songs or songs 
of shepherds. Eclogue, like Buco- 
lic, a word of Greek origin, signi- 
fies a choice. It is therefore gener- 
ally supposed that Virgil called the 
Bucolics, or pastoral poems, Eclog- 
ues, because they are a selection of 
choice pieces, such as he thought 
worthy of publication. The Eclog- 
ues are ten in number and contain 
829 verses. So well were they re- 
ceived by the Romans that they 
were several times played upon the 
stage. Cicero, it is said, after hear- 
ing one of them, did not hesitate to 
say of the author: "Magnae spes 
altera Romae." 

The civil wars, which but lately 
were raging in the Roman Empire, 
had nearly caused the desolation 
of all Italy. The fields were left un- 
cultivated and the inhabitants, in 
their misery, threw the blame on 
Csesar. Only one resolution was to 
be taken in such a crisis, and that 
was to turn the attention of the 
people to agriculture. Virgil, who 

had completed the Bucolics, but a 
short while before, now devoted his 
undivided attention to a treatise on 
husbandry. The Georgics had the 
desired effect. After their publica- 
tion, the appearance of Italy was 
changed; smiling fields greeted the 
eye on every side and health and 
plenty cheered the happy inhab- 
itants. Originally, the word Georg- 
ics signifies the cultivation or till- 
age of the earth. They contain 
2,188 verses, which are divided into 
four books. The first of these 
treats of the various kinds of soil 
and the proper management of 
each. The second, of fruit trees. 
The third of cattle, and the fourth 
of bees. 
•We have now come to Virgil's 
greatest work— the iEneid. It is a 
heroic or epic poem, and one of the 
few great epics in all languages. 
It takes its name from iEneas, the 
son of Anchises and Venus. 

Happily for literature, the wish 
of Virgil, that the ^Eneid should be 
consigned to the flames, was not 
carried out. To Augustus, the 
world of letters owes grateful 
thanks for its preservation. 

The chief objection which critics in 
all ages have urged against the 
yEneid, "is the defect in what forms 
the most essential quality of a 
poet, originality and the power of 
invention." I refrain from rehears- 
ing the oft-repeated story of this 
epic. Every school boy, even the 
smallest of them, has heard of the 
profligate Paris, the warlike Hec- 
tor, the determined Menelaus, who, 
by force of arms, would compel the 
aged Priam to accede to his pro- 
posals. They have, every one of 
them, heard of the Trojan War, 
that lasted for ten long years. 
They know the history of the 
wooden horse, in which the Greeks 
were concealed ; they have followed 
with intense interest the seven 
years' voyage of /Eneas, from Troy 
to Italy. All this is so familiar, 



that a detailed repetition of the 
different events would prove te- 
dious and unprofitable. 

For some time our attention has 
been given to the study of the 
games which Avere instituted by 
JEneas to celebrate the anniver- 
sary of his father's death. In 
passing, I would remark, that 
Virgil, in this, as in other parts 
of his great poem, has on- 
ly copied froth Homer, who, 
in the twenty-third book of the 
Iliad, represents Achilles celebrat- 
ing obsequies in honor of his friend, 

The boat race, the foot race, the 
boxing match, have always been 
studied with pleasure, by the clas- 
sical student. They are roused to 
a state of excitement by the vary- 
ing fortunes of Mnestheus, Serges- 
tus, Gyas and Cloanthus, the cap- 
tains of the ships. With the Trojans, 
they too can laugh at the unfortu- 
nate Moenetes, who. cast headlong 
from his ship, swims slowly to the 
nearest rock. 

They feel their spirits moved by the 
words of Mnestheus when, walking 
in the midst of his men, he exclaims: 
"Now, now, oh companions of Hec- 
tor, rise to your oars and be asham- 
ed to return the last." Ardor seizes 
their souls: "Possunt quia posse 
videntur." They rejoice with Cloan- 
thus when the great voice of the 

herald proclaims him the victor. 

The tender and loving Euryalus 
wins the heart of every youth, and 
admiration fills his soul for the he- 
roic Nisus. But Dares and Entellus, 
the two champions who engage in a 
hand to hand contest, attract the 
greatest attention. 

Nothing can surpass these de- 
scriptions for naturalness and vivac- 
ity. Did time allow I would be 
happy to point out some of the many 
beauties of his versification. He is 
truly "the wielder of the stateliest 
measure ever moulded by the lips of 
man." On his return from the clas- 
sic soil of Greece, whither he had 
retired to revise the iEneid, Virgil 
felLsick and diedatBrundusium, on 
the 22d day of September, being 
nearly 51 years of age. He wished to 
be interred at Naples, and is said on 
his death-bed, to have composed 
the following lines as his epitaph: 

" Mantua me genuit: CaJabri 
rapuere, tenet nunc Parthenope: 
Cecini pascua, rura, duces" 

"I sung flocks, tillage, heroes; 
Mantua gave me life, Brundusium 
death, Naples a grave." 

In conclusion let me say with Ten- 
nyson : 

I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved thee sinee my 

day began, 
Wielder of the stateliest measure ever moiUded by 

the lips of man. 

J. Jacobs. 


Those College bells ! Those College bells ! 

Long vanished are their magic spells ; 
Yet sweet to me in memory still, 

When e'er I think of dear Spring Hill. 

How oft with friends, both tried and true, 

I've spent the hours in wandering through 
The lovely woods and flowery dells, 

Until recalled by College bells. 
How quickly sped those years of joy, 

Of happiness without alloy. 
Those were, indeed, my happiest days, 

And well deserve my sweetest praise. 

M. D. McGrath. 




The first day of the scholastic 
year, 1891 and *92. was a brilliant 
one. It brought more new boys to 
Spring Hill than have been seen 
here since 1884. 

The closing of St. Charles College, 
Grand Coteau, no doubt, gave us 
many new boys. The Grand Coteau 
boys have shown by their gentle- 
manly conduct and serious appli- 
cation to study that they will 
prove an honor to Spring Hill as 
they have been to St. Charles. 
Far from coming as strangers 
amongst us, they came as friends 
only to rival us in serious study 
and manly athletic sports. 

Home-sickness this year made its 
appearance in a very mild form; 
there were few cases, and even those 
could not long resist the all-healing 
power of base ball. 

The national game was nobly 
upheld in Spring Hill last season. 
The first game that season, was a 
glorious victory. The Collegians 
outplayed their opponents at every 
point. The score was : College 19, 
Mobile 2. Mobile soon rallied and 
two weeks later appeared with a - 
very strong team and felt confident'^ 
of success. The efficiency of the 
pitchers was something marvelous. 
Walsh, of the College, struck out 
twenty . Frank , Yeen d and M ahler, 
of the Mobiles, eleven, five and two 
respectively. The result of the 
game was only another triumph 
added to a long list of victories. 
The score was 10 to 2. 

The Junior College nine were not 
always successful. When they 
crossed bats with the Athletic nine 
of Mobile, the game, though well 
contested, resulted in a victory for 
the visitors by a score of 5 to 4. 

The new uniforms of the Senior 
and Junior baseball nines add con- 

siderably to the beauty of the 
game. We hope the players will 
remember that if they wish to main- 
tain their high reputation as play- 
ers, they must not depend upon the 

Our amateur photographers seem 
determined to <taka» a picture of 
everything that k 'lives, moves or 
has being." They have already 
used more chemicals than would be 
sufficient to last a first-class pho- 
tographer for five years. If they 
have not made many fine photo- 
graphs, they have certainly had 
plenty of experience. But it is only 
fair to say that they have made 
great improvement, and some really 
fine views have been taken of late. 

Stenography seemed to be the 
favorite study for a time, the class 
was largely attended. Mr. Deasy 
follows the system of Munson, but 
short-hand, like all other studies, 
requires time and practice, so we 
are not surprised that the class 
gradually diminished. 

This year foot ball, which was 
more or less neglected during the 
past few years, as we had prac- 
tically no winter, was resumed and 
some very animated games were 
played, but as the fine weather 
appeared, base ball soon took the 

The exhibition given by the phi- 
losophers, although an impromptu 
affair, is said to have met with favor. 
The new boys were very much 
pleased with the declamations and 

Sunday, October 11, was the oc- 
casion of the reorganization of the 
Senior Fhilomathic Society. The 
following is the result of the elec- 
tion of officers, viz : President, E. 
T. J. Fitzgerald: Secretary, F. J. 
Killeen ; Censor, C. P. Mclntyre. 



The Junior Philomathic Society 
has reorganized and elected the fol- 
lowing officers: President, James 
Hanlon; Secretary, Ed. Trahan; 
Censor, C. Hebert. 

There was a slight change in the 
usual programme for the 22nd of 
November, St. Catherine's Day. All 
the boys of the graduating classes 
went to Holy Communion that 
morning at the students' mass. In 
the evening the philosophers went 
to town where they had the custom- 
ary dinner in the honor of their 
Patroness. The Superior Commer- 
cial boys assembled in the College 
Refectory at 5 p. m. where they did 
honor to the Alexandrian virgin. 

The entertainment tendered us by 
the Rhetoricians was well received 
by the audience and reflects credit 
not only upon those who engaged 
our attention, but upon the whole 
class. The exhibition was truly a 
success and the Album extends its 

The statue of the Blessed Virgin 
on the north of the building was 
beautifully illuminated on the 8th 
of December. The Senior Band 
played some very choice pieces, and 
all the boys joined in singing canti- 
cles to their Immaculate Queen. 

The exhibition given by the Belles 
Lettres class met with well-deserved 
success. The young gentlemen ac- 
quitted themselves very creditably 
and are entitled to the congratula- 
tions, which the Album most freely 

The Junior Band is on the high 
road to success. They have just 
added a helicon to their now com- 
plete set of instruments. The band 
is composed of thirty members and 
as the youngsters are in earnest, 
we do not hesitate to prophesy a 
brilliant future. Many of the selec- 
tions they play would even do honor 
to the Senior Band. 

The orchestra has given many 
beautiful overtures; nothing but 
the most classical authors are tol- 
erated. Some of the greatest mas- 
ters would be pleased if they heard 
the rendition of their works at the 
monthly exhibitions. This year 
the new French horns have added 
greatly to the music. Masters J. 
Mulherin and John Armstrong de- 
serve credit for their painstaking 

The annual retreat began on the 
evening of the 13th of January and 
ended on the feast of the Holy 
Name. It was given by Rev. Father 
Power and was followed most atten- 
tively by all the boys, who express- 
ed themselves very much pleased 
with the instructions. 

Master Clarence Hebert deserves 
special mention for the praise- 
worthy manner in which he passed 
his semi-annual examinations. 
Master Hebert's notes averaged one 
hundred points out of a possible 

The Junior Academy which had 
to postpone their half-session play 
on account of the grippe, gave us 
a very pretty entertainment, "The 
Expiation." They are to be con- 
gratulated on the care and grace 
with which they performed their 
parts, and especially on the loud, 
clear voice in which they spoke. 
Many of the old boys might take a 
lesson from them and remember 
that the first requisite of any 
speaker is to make himself heard. 

The Senior Brass Band counts 
twenty-four members, but these are 
the creme de la creme of the College 
musicians. We must not forget to 
add that this year's band not only 
holds, but richly deserves its wide- 
spread reputation. 

M. B. Bergeron. 



[A Lay of Ancient Home.] 

Minucius 'fore the Aequi 

Abandoned sword and spear, 
And with his troops in trenches 

Was kept in mortal fear. 
There like the antlered monarch 

When kept by dogs at bay, 
He mourned o'er Rome's disaster, 

And hoped a better day. 
Insulting were the Aequi 

Before the Roman camp, 
Before the eyes of praetors 

The enemy dared to tramp; 
They taunted all the warriors, 

And called the soldiers slaves, 
They jested too quite often, 

And sent the army staves. 
" Let clubs be sent to children, 

To men give arms of steel, 
(Unto the Quirites said they), 

With you this way we deal; 
Rome's children have we conquered, 

We'll soon o'erpower the dame, 
In chains we'll lead her captive, 

For this in arms we came." 
These taunts were felt by Romans, 

But fear possessed them all, 
Degenerate, they trembled, 

And skulked behind the wall. 
At Rome were sacrifices 

Offered to every god: 
To Jove they vowed an altar 

To stay the threatening rod; 
The shrine of Mars was smoking 

To aid his falling race, 
To stir their drooping courage 

That they the foe might face; 
The glare from Vesta's tripod 

Showed virgins in alarm: 
The entrails were examined, 

Gathered the blood yet warm, 
Bullocks were immolated 

To save the Roman state, 
For Romans in gods trusted 

How black soe'er its fate. 


In long debate the fathers 

Were seated all the day 
And much was urged and counselled 

Who should the danger stay; 
Unanimous they chose him, 

On whom all eyes were turned, 
Whom once they chose as consul 

Who riches, power spurned; 
'Twas Quinctius Cincinnatus, 

Who tilled his farm himself; 
In him they saw their safety 

Who scorned applause and pelf. 
So to the farm of Quinctius 

The deputies then came: 
They found the Roman leader, 

Roman in deed and name, 
They found him as a farmer 

Never to work ashamed, 
For honesty and labour 

Than other chiefs more famed. 
They found him with his oxen 

Ploughing a meted field; 
In the earth he made deep furrows 

Who well the sword could wield, 
He guided now the ploughshare, 

Who states could rule and shield. 
"What fortunes have ye brought, sirs! 

Said Quinctius as he paused 
And stopped his yoke of oxen, 

What danger hath now caused 
These woe-expressing faces ? 

Is aught amiss at home? 
What new foe hath come on us? 

What army threatens Rome? " 
Then thus the senior added: 

"Great Cincinnatus, hail! 
Of Rome thou art Dictator: 

Hasten put on thy mail, 
And come to head our army 

For thou alone canst save; 
Hasten, protect our freedom 

Before the foe enslave; 
They now insult our forces 

Which are no longer brave; 
For Rome prepare a triumph, 

For enemies a grave. 


The fathers choose thee leader, 
And Rome implores her son 
For she 'neath thy protection 
Perceives the battle won." 
" Since then my country calls me, 

The veteran replied 
I leave aU when she bids me, 
Her will must mine decide, 
I grasp the sword most willing 

To avenge the blood they spilled 
Although this year it seems, sirs, 

My field will not be tilled." 
He wiped the perspiration 

From off his honest brow, 
And in the unfinished furrow 

He left the heavy plough. 
Unto the city goes he, 
' And there harangues the crowd, 
He speaks of ancient glory 

In voice that's clear and loud; 
He tells them of Hostilius, 

And Tullius loved by all; 
He paints the tyrant's power 

And Tarquin's shameful fall, 
He shows the steel of Brutus, 

And that of Scaevola; 
Brings forth the traitor, Cassius, 
Who wished to usurp the law; 
'Fore them he brings as models 

The Fabian family, 
Who faced the hostile forces 
And never thought to flee. 
The law of Rome he tells them: 

To spare the bended knee 
But e'er the haughty alien, 

To crush, and thus be free. 
Before their eyes he brings them 

Their recent fatal loss, 
He shows the foe insulting, 
Romans behind the fosse. 
Securely slept the Aequi 

Each man beneath his tent, 
But suddenly at midnight 

The air with shouts is rent 
For Quinctius with his army 
Doth fall upon the foe, 


And soon the enemy 's feeling 

The Quirites' vengeful blow. 
In the camp 'tis all confusion — 

They stand — they flee — they fight — 
They try to stem the torrent, 

But soon are put to flight. 
Gracchus doth try to rally, 

But gives his horse the rein, 
He's borne away by numbers, — 

To pause is now in vain. 
How many of the Aequi 

Do bite the crimson ground. 
They fall one on another, 

Their arms in death resound; 
The Romans with their javelins, 

Like falcons on their prey, 
Rush on the trembling soldiers 

Their foes intent to slay; 
Trinsfix them with their lances, 

Pluck off the vaunting crest, 
Tear off the lying armors, 

Unlace the gilded vest. 
Upon their fleeing shoulders 

Their blows they sharply deal, 
Or through the crouching bodies 

They drive the Roman steel. 
The morn had seen an army 

The Aequi's mighty boast, 
The morrow saw but stragglers 

The remnant of that host. , 

Two armies now besieged them, 

For quarter now they sued, 
Their arms were quickly given 

To show they were subdued. 
Beneath the yoke so shameful 

They were obliged to pass, 
No longer with their cuirass 

Or arms of triple brass, 
Despoiled, save with their toga 

They bow beneath the yoke: 
And thus the fallen Aequi 

Escaped the fatal stroke. 
The Aequi matrons mourn now, 

For those who fell that night, 
And mothers tear their tresses 

For those who went to fight. 


Loud mourn these wretched mothers. 

O'er empty tombs they weep, 
Within no cherished copses, — 

Without no shields to heap. 
A triumph for our Quinctius, 

Who thus hath saved Rome's name, 
A triumph for the hero 

Who comes with honest fame! 
Beneath the many arches 

The chief is borne along, 
Surrounded with bright lances 

'Midst trump and martial song; 
Behind him walk the captives 

To grace his chariot wheels, 
Their arms and spoils collected 

The centre now reveals. 
What most the chief rejoices 

Is not this gaudy show 
He views the people's freedom, 

And finds not other foe. 
Rejoices Cincinnatus: 

He sees the infants' face, 
He views the Fathers present 

Amidst the populace, 
He hears the Pontiff's blessing, 

He sees the virgins' smile, 
In these this man rejoices, 

And not in wealth that's vile. 
Now sixteen days are over, 

And to his farm again 
Retires the noble Quinctius. 

No more doth he retain 
The office of Dictator, 

Which well the hero earned, 
But towards his humble station, 

From honor, fame he turned, 
Nor brought he any trophy, 

For gold and spoils he spurned. 
His needy farm he entered, 

Much poorer than before; 
Except to plough his acre, — 

He cared for nothing more. 

J. Fitzjames. 







tTrip up the Chesapeake, to 
one outside of Maryland and 
Virginia, who has not grown 
accustomed to the scene, is 
an event in a person's life, 
never to be forgotten. 
We were a merry party from the 
Crescent City, and like the rest of 
our fellow citizens, characteris- 
tically fond of pleasure trips and 
enjoyments of all kinds. We 
scarcely had time to go far North, 
so we chose Baltimore and the 
Chesapeake as the object of our 
journey. We went by way of Nor- 
folk, Va. The day we arrived there 
is ever memorable to our minds, 
for the torrents of rain that poured 
down on our heads. We took a 
cab, of course. But I sincerely 
wished we had taken no such thing, 
though the weather was so stormy ; 
for the cab was one of those terrible 
vehicles that jolt a man enough in 
one hour to make him rickety for a 
week. I was sure we would be 
landed in the gutter of one of those 
narrow streets before we reached 
the end of our journey. Perhaps, 
though, the driver knew his duty. 
It is true, he turned corners at a 
terrific speed, six times barely 
avoiding a collision, and twice run- 
ning into holes over two feet deep. 
But still, without any serious dam- 
age to our persons, he managed 
finally to drive us up in front of the 
"New Atlantic Hotel. 1 ' Here we 
alighted and took up our abode. 

Things now began to be more 
comfortable. A little brushing and 
dusting, and a good wash, and we 
appreciated the difference between 
riding in railroad coaches and 
making ourselves at home in the 
apartments of a quiet and well 
kept hotel. 

We slept soundly that night. 
When we met the next day on the 
porch, it was well nigh midday. 
But the dark clouds of the preced- 
ing day had disappeared. The sun 

was out in his glory. The atmos- 
phere, cooled by the long rains, 
seemed to invite us to wander 
about and admire the antique 
beauty of the old Virginian city. 
But to describe all that we saw, or 
any of the sights that attracted us 
in our walk that day, is beside our 
purpose. After all, it was but a 
shadow of the splendor we wit- 
nessed on the following evening. 

The next day we took the steamer 
"Carolina" for Baltimore. It was 
four o'clock in the afternoon when, 
beyond Hampton Koads, the dark, 
heaving billows of the Chesapeake 
were in sight. At six o'clock that 
evening we were gliding over the 
bosom of its waters. ! the emo- 
tions that rilled our souls as we 
threw out our arms in admiration ! 
Grand and glorious Chesapeake! 
Well may we doubt if the Hudson 
or the far-famed Rhine surpass you 
in beauty. Proud boast of Mary- 
land and Virginia! Worthy to 
separate North from South; well 
might two nations claim you as 
their own ! 

The sun was fast declining. But 
the farewell with which he bade 
adieu ere he went down into the 
west, is to my soul a source of con- 
tinual joy. Often since, in tranquil 
moments, I review the scene. Light, 
gentle clouds, one upon another, 
reached back far in the distance. 
Behind these the sun spread his 
golden rays wider and wider, beau- 
tiful and more beautiful. The wes- 
tern hills mingled with the illumined 
clouds. The scene was like that 
where throne upon throne, seraph 
upon seraph and power upon power 
roll far back until they are lost in 
the Eternal itself; but only a few 
moments. Too soon the halo of 
glory began to melt into the darker 
shades of evening, and the sun, 
calmly, quietly, gently falling to 
rest, whispering "peace to thee, 
great waters," bowed down his 



head beneath the western shore. 

Our little party was gathered to- 
gether. No one had dared to speak. 
We awoke, like the monk Felix, from 
our reverie, charmed, as it were, 
with scenes from another world. 
But the sound of a bell tinkling 
below called us to our senses. It 
was the supper-bell. Had it been 
anything else, we might have been 
angry at the interruption. How- 
ever, three hours on the sea had so 
whetted our appetites that, while on 
the one hand our mental delight 
was not easily to be relinquished, 
we were willing to mortify it, in or- 
der to partake of a goodly repast. 

After supper we again went on 
deck. There was no comfort in 
staying below or inside. The invig- 
orating sea breezes were not only 
good for digestion, but a help to 
pleasant conversation. The cigar- 
ettes passed round, and we were the 
picture of enjoyment. Our thoughts 
and words were of a lofty character. 
All nature combined to make us 
rise from the visible to the invisible. 
Even now, when we wish to recall 
the truth, that mental and spiritual 
pleasures far surpass all others, we 
need but recall that night, when we 
saw the sun go down in glory and 
then watched the silvery moon as 
she made her way over the crystal 
sky. Gentle Queen of Night, so 

beautiful, so serene, so calm, so 
placid . Never on thy silvery throne 
didst thou sit more majestically ! 

The sun had gone to rest. But 
he had left his peace behind. While 
we were at supper the soft moon 
had risen on high She now looked 
down upon the deep, like a spirit 
that watched over the eagle of night 
and kept away its terrors. The 
world was at peace, and she beheld 
it as with a protecting eye, and 
seemed to say that all was well. 
Gazing upon her, as she looked 
down upon the waters that reflected 
her calm splendor, we could not 
help thinking of Him who saw the 
waters and said, "Be still," so 
smoothly did they now flow on be- 
neath her soft and gentle rays. 

Shortly before midnight our con- 
versation began to lull. Some of 
our party were dropping off to sleep. 
Finally we all arose and retired to 
rest; to sleep and dream over the 
events of the day. The next morn- 
ing all was changed. We were in 
one of the noisy harbors of Balti- 
more. We were at the end of our 
voyage. Yet, only in body. Our 
spirits will often revisit thee, grand 
Chesapeake! And the night we 
spent on the bosom of your waters 
will fulfil in our hearts, the words : 

" A thing of beauty, is a joy forever.'' 

Mat. Mahorner. 


Virgo regalis dominans Olympum, 
Cui dies puros, famulante curru, 
Sol agit, noctem rutilisque flammis 

Sidera pingunt, 
Pectoris tristes, age, pelle curas. 
Heu ! nimis longo saturata luctu 
Virgo, manantes lacrymis ocellos 

Oraque terge. 

Nunc sonent plausus citharaque carmen 
Gaudiis dulces tenerisque amicum 
Nunc superfuso tibi, corda inundet 

Amne voluptas. 
Ille qui rerum genitus Parente 
Se tuam gaudet sobolem vocari, 
Morte, io, pulsus, redit ad beatae 

Lurnina vitne. 

Jas. P. Armstrong, 




[An Indian Tale.] 

In the woods strolled Quigualtanque 

One fine morning in the spring-time, 

Armed with quiver, bow and arrows, 

With his hunting knife about him, 

With his coat of shaggy bison. 

On the p'ne straw walked the young man, 

Whilst the mortuary branches, 

Which the wintry blast had loosened, 

Nea'h his moccasins cracked loudly ; 

And the flowers as he passed by, 

Quivered with such wild emotion, 

That from out their bells they sprinkled 

Diamonds which the night secreted. 

Right above him in the tree-tops 

Flew the birds of Southern climates: 

Mocking-birds so sweetly singing, 

Blue-birds, humming-birds, and others. 

As the youthful Indian wandered, 

Spied he in the misty distance, 

Feeding on a lawn all radiant, 

One young deer, so thin and graceful, 

Which so quietly was grazing 

That it seemed to be a statue. 

But the noise of shuffling arrows 

Doth reanimate the wild deer: 

Off it starts with speed of lightning, 

Whilst its hoofs scarce skim the pasture. 

Yet an arrow from the bow-string 

Of the agile Quigualtanqui 

Brings to earth the fleeing creature. 

In its flank the shaft all quivering 

Dangles from the flesh that's rankling: 

'Tis in vain the deer arises 

On its fore feet, for it stumbles, 

And with beating hoofs, the pasture 

Spurns, the agonizing creature; 

From its mouth the parched tongue lolls 

And its eyes in death roll wildly. 

From the brush-wood leaps a tiger; 

On the gasping hind it pounces, 

With its teeth the neck 'tis craunching 

And the soft flanks it is clawing. 

Fearless comes out Quigaultanqui, 

And a poignant missile sends he; 


Through the tiger's paunch the arrow 

With its keen barb doth it enter. 

Savage is the growl it utters, 

Crease and surge the spots all sable, 

Flies the sand its paws are spurning; 

Then the beast, its tail oft lashing, 

Crouches, draws back and springs forward; 

Gracefully young Quigualtanqui 

Backward steps, and on his weapon, 

On his hunting knife receives it. 

To the earth the tiger falleth, 

On its furry coat 'tis sprawling. 

Quickly on it leaps the Indian, 

With his knife he strikes the jaguar 

Whilst the claws his breast are tearing. 

Then its bloody jaws he seizes 

And with all his might extends them, 

Slowly drawing them asunder, 

Till the tiger struggles fainter, 

Till in death its limbs it stretches. 

With his knife doth Quigualtanqui 

Flay the deer which he had singled. 

With its skin upon his shoulders, 

Trailing on the ground the tiger, 

With his visage blood-besprinkled, 

With his arms all gashed and bleeding, 

With his breast all raw and gory, 

Enters he his Natchez village, 

Where the scalps on poles are strung up, 

Where the wigwams' smoke ascending, 

Boiling corn and roasting bison. 

Lo! in crowds the people gather, 

Home to welcome Quigualtanqui; 

There's old Alahoflechia 

With his tufted, sable head-dress, 

Who with grim smile greets the hunter. 

Then appears the fair Tallula, 

She from warrior sires descended: 

Small and delicate her features, 

Dark her eyes and flowing ringlets. 

Graceful is her slender body 

Wrapped in green and saffron vesture 

Decked with pearls and golden trinkets; 

Matched by none among the Natchez 

Is this beauteous maid Tallula. 

Then thus spoke out Quigualtanqui: 

Now rejoice, ye Natchez warriors! 


For no longer will this tiger 

Prowl at night around your village 

To despoil you of your cattle, 

Or bear off your wandering children; 

For the strength of Quigualtanqui, 

Of his arm to-day hath triumphed, 

And this hide upon my shoulders 

Shall I carry as memorial 

Of my youthful pristine hunting, 

When I soaked in blood all reeking 

These my hands divine and princely. 

But to thee Tallula give I, 

This soft deer skin as a present, 

From a prince who loves thee dearly. 

Then thus answered fair Tallula : 

"Like the glorious crimson sunset 

Is thy face, O my beloved; 

Ruddy is it with thy carnage, 

Lo! my heart to see thee beateth, 

And with joy it overfloweth 

Like some sylvan stream in spring-time. 

When in battle act thus nobly 

With this tiger on thy shoulders 

With thy flaming feathers waving, 

And instead of hide of wild beast 

Bring me scalps from enemies taken. 

— C. Parker. 




'N every city of the South we see 
monuments erected to the 
memory of our illustrious dead; 
to men who in a just cause 
gave up even life itself in defence 
of their honor and their 
homes. Mobile has not been back- 
ward in this respect. Few cities 
suffered as she did in the late Civil 
war, and few have so quickly 
mounted again the ladder of pro- 
gress and regained as much lost 
ground. Eagerly did she respond 
to the call of the Memorial Associa- 
tion for funds, and there now stands 
above the "fallen brothers" a noble 
shaft of granite, an honor to the 
city and state. Added to this, her 
citizens are now erecting another 
monument to commemorate in a 
special way the memory of him 
whose name, with those of Davis 
and Stephens, Lee and Yancey, will 
never be forgotten in the South. 
Their names will ever be remember- 
ed as the heroes who fought so 
nobly in a just but lost cause. There 
were few who fought more bravely 
for that, ''conquered banner'' than 
Raphael Semmes. 

The father of our hero, Thompson 
Semmes, was a descendant of Wil- 
liam Semmes, of Poundisford Halls, 
Sometshire, England, who, perse- 
cuted on account of his religious 
tenets, emigrated to America in 
company with Lord Baltimore in 
the year 1033, and settled in Charles 
county, Maryland. 

It was here that Raphael Semmes 
was born on the 27th day of Sep- 
tember, 1809. His early days were 
s] KMit like that of tlie ordinary south- 
ern youth, and we find nothing 
noteworthy until he reached the age 
of seventeen, when he received an 
appointment asmid-shipman in the 
navy. He did not enter on active 
service until six years later, spend- 
ing this period in study. He was 
admitted to the bar in 1834, after 
his first cruise, but preferring the 
lite of a seaman to that of a jurist. 

he did not practice his profession. 
After three years of active service 
he was promoted to a lieutenancy, 
and in 1842 removed to Alabama. 
The courage and daring of the 
young seaman were recognized ; he 
was promoted to a flag-lieuten- 
ancy at the outbreak of the Mexi- 
can war, and was entrusted with 
the command of a battery during 
the bombardment of Vera Cruz. 
He was unfortunate, however, in 
his first command; his ship, the 
United States brig of war Somers 
capsized in a, squall off Vera Cruz, 
and many lives were lost, his being 
saved only by the bravery of one of 
his subalterns. Later on he served 
as inspector of light-houses for the 
Gulf Coast division, and in 1855 
was promoted commander in the 
navy, and in 1857 secretary of the 
Light-house Board at Washington, 
in which body he took his seat as 
member a few months later. 

When, in 1861, Alabama seceded 
from the Union, Commander 
Semmes, mindful of the duty and 
allegiance he owed to his adopted 
state, resigned his commission in 
the navy, and making his way 
speedily to Montgomery, tendered 
his services to President Davis. He 
left Washington on the 16th and 
reached the Confederate capital on 
the 19th of February, immediately 
putting himself in communication 
with the chairman of the committee 
on naval affairs. It must have 
cost him a struggle to sever his con- 
nections with the flag under which 
he had sailed for so many years, 
and in whose defence he had won 
the applause of his fellow citizens 
by his valorous conduct, for he tells 
us that around the old flag clustered 
the hallowed memories of sacrifices 
made and victories won. He was 
sent North in the latter part of Feb- 
ruary to purchase ammunition and 
to contract for the erection of arsen- 
als in the South. He went through 
the North, carrying out his instruc- 



tions, and sending- thousands of 
percussion caps, etc., to Montgom- 
ery without the slightest effort at 
concealment. On his return to that 
city, he was offered the command 
of a small steamer of 500 tons bur- 
den, then lying at New Orleans. 
This little vessel, hardly fit to bat- 
tle with the boisterous squalls of 
the Gulf, was destined to win laurels 
for her commander and to hand 
down her name to posterity, not 
only as the first vessel to flaunt the 
Confederate flag in the eyes of the 
enemy, but also as a commerce 
destroyer, likening herself to the 
"Old Ironsides" or the "Essex" of 
colonial days. She was only a 
small trading packet, and as much 
unlike a ship of war as possible. 
However* the ship had some good 
qualities; her lines being easy and 
graceful, she sat on the water with 
a saucy air which proclaimed her, 
although unfit, yet not averse to 
her lot as a ship of war. 

Her commander hastened to New 
Orleans in order personally to 
superintend the arrangement of his 
ship. Two long months were nec- 
essary to complete his preparations 
and to get his ammunition on 
board. After long and tedious de- 
lays he was at last enabled to put 
his ship under commission, naming 
her the Sumpter after the late vic- 
tory over the fort of that name in 
Charleston harbor. He then dropped 
down the river. The Sumpter could 
not pass the bar however, being- 
blockaded by three ships of the ene- 
my, all of which were much superior 
to the Sumpter both in speed and 
in metal. The officers of these ships 
had tampered with the pilots off 
the shore, and no. one could be 
found to guide the little cruiser 
through the dangerous channel. At 
last an opportunity arrived, and 
with a full head of steam, the Sump- 
ter passed the bar, and running 
away from the enemy, escaped by 
the timely advent of 'one of those 
gales which sweep the Gulf at that 
season of t he year. 

We do not propose to follow the 
adventurous little steamer during 
her cruise, although it was one suc- 
cession of daring deeds and perilous 
trials. We see her burning the ene- 
my's shipping in the West Indies, in 
mid-ocean, off the Azores, destroy- 
ing the enemy's commerce, and are 
grieved when she has to be aban- 
doned at Gibraltar. She was laid 
up there in order to escape the 
United States ships which blockad- 
ed her, and at last was sold, having 
caused her name to become a house- 
hold word in every nation of both 

Commander Semmes was not 
long to be left without a command. 
At the time of the abandonment of 
the Sumpter, there .was in course of 
construction in Liverpool a steamer 
for the Confederacy. A certain Cap- 
tain Bullock was to have the com- 
mand of her, but instructions 
reached the late Captain of the 
Sumpter, while at Nassau on his 
way home, to return to England, 
and take command of this ship. 
Mr. Semmes, now appointed to a 
captaincy, immediately returned to 
England. On his arrival there he 
found that the Alabama had sailed 
to her rendezvous, the Island of 
Terceira, one of the Azores, and 
having collected around him as 
many of his old officers and men as 
he could, he repaired thither, ac- 
companied by Captain Bullock, who 
had supervised the building of the 
ship, and who wished to be present 
at her christening. The Alabama 
was a model vessel of most perfect 
symmetry and she rested on the 
water like a stately swan. She was 
barkentine rigged, carrying an 
enormous press of canvas, a quality 
which served her well in her long- 
chases after the enemy's shipping. 
Her engines were over 300 horse 
power, giving her speed of about 10 
knots an hour, a speed which was 
always overrated by the enemy, and 
which on her trial trip was only 11% 
knots, that being her best record; 
while under steam and sail together 



she never logged more than 13% 
knots. Her armament consisted of 
eight guns, six 32-pounders, in 
broadside, and two pivot guns, one 
of which a 100-rifled Blakely, was 
so deficient as to be of little use. 
Her average crew mustered 120 
men and she carried about twenty- 
four officers, counting from the cap- 
tain to the ship's carpenter. She 
was of lighter construction than 
the United States ships of the same 
class, but this mattered little, as 
she was designed, not so much as a 
battleship as a commerce destroyer; 
and she fulfilled all expectations in 
this regard, for before she sank off 
Cherbourg, she had burned more 
than sixty of the enemy's ships. 

On Sunday morning, the 24th 
day of August, 1862, just outside of 
the marine league of Terceira, the 
Alabama was duly commissioned 
as a Confederate " States cruiser, 
Raphael Semmes, captain. The 
crew for the Alabama was a subject 
of some anxiety to her captain, 
since the men who had brought the 
ship from the Azores were only 
shipped for that voyage.- All of 
them, however, with very few excep- 
tions, remained, and they were a 
very creditable set of men, number- 
ing eighty, all told. 

The Alabama's first prize was the 
whaling-ship, Ocmulgee, which was 
burnt off the Azores, September 5, 
1862; after which she bore away 
for the Banks of Newfoundland, 
burning and destroying on her way. 
Thousands of dollars worth of 
breadstuffs and other merchandise 
was destroyed, causing the New 
York and Boston papers fairly to 
howl with rage against the pirate 
Semmes and his rebel ship. Mr. 
Secretary Welles, so eager to block- 
ade the Southern ports, left his mer- 
chant fleet totally undefended, a 
prey to the enemy's cruisers. Pass- 
ing down the Atlantic coast, in order 
to strike at the enemy in the Gulf, 
Capt. Semmes engaged and sunk the 
U. S. steamer Hatteras off the is- 
land of Galveston, and then bore 

away across the equator to the coast 
of Brazil, making for himself the 
name of "the toll gatherer of the 
seas." Stopping a short while in 
the Brazils to repair and coal his 
ship, he stretched away for the Cape 
of Good Hope, and coaled again; up 
through the Indian Ocean to the 
China Sea, and thence back again to 
Good Hope he went, strictly 
fulfilling his orders to prey upon the 
enemy's shipping, and roaming the 
highways and byways of commerce, 
"thegreat toll gatherer of theseas." 
From Good Hope Capt. Semmes 
sailed for Europe, intending to put 
in at some English or French port 
in order to repair his ship and renew 
his nearly burned out boilers; for 
the Alabama had suffered consider- 
ably from her voyages around the 
globe. Her commander had fared 
no better. Sleepless nights and 
anxious days, which make 4 up the 
constant vigil on board a man-of- 
war; the frequent changes of cli- 
mate, now in the ice-bound oceans 
of the North, now exposed to the 
broiling rays of an equatorial sun, 
had thickened his white hairs, and 
laid heavy years upon his already 
burdened shoulders. 

The Alabama ran into Cherbourg, 
where she w 7 as to be docked. While 
here, waiting for permission from 
the French emperor to enter the 
docks, the Kearsage, United States 
sloop of war, steamed into the har- 
bor, sent a man on shore and 
steamed out again, taking a posi- 
tion so as to blockade her enemy. 
Captain Semmes immediately re- 
solved to give battle to this ship. 
On thernorningof the 19th of June, 
1864, he got up steam, beat to 
quarters and ran out of the port, 
opening on the enemy as soon as he 
got within range. The two ships 
were to all appearances, eq ual, and 
kept up a continuous fire for one 
hour and ten minutes, after which 
the Alabama was found to be in a 
sinking condition. Captain Semmes 
seeing that his ship was lost, tried 
to run ashore on the French 



coast, but the influx of water into 
the hold extinguished the fire under 
her boilers, and the ship had to 
strike her colors. The "stars and 
bars'' were run down, and a signal 
of distress hoisted to the top-gal- 
lant mast, as the ship had already 
begun to sink. The enemy did not 
recognize the signal of distress at 
all, and sent no assistance to the 
crow of the sinking ship, but fired 
oven after the signal. 

Great rejoicing was held all over 
the North for the destruction of the 
Alabama, much praise being given 
to Captain Winslowfor the victory; 
but when we compare the actions 
of the two commanders, Semmes 
and Winslow, we find the victory 
shorn of its glory, and feel con- 
strained to pluck the laurel from 
the victor's brow. When the Hat- 
Terns was sunk off 'Galveston, al- 
though it was at night, and in the 
face of several of the enemy's ships 
of war, Captain Semmes rescued 
every man onboard; while, not only 
was the Alabama allowed to shift 
for herself, but the Kearsage poured 
in four or five broadsides on her 
oven after she had surrendered. Ten 
of her crew were drowned, while 
some of her men escaped to the 
land, the rest, with the exception of 
a few who fell into the hands of the 
enemy, were picked up by an Eng- 
lish yacht, the Deerhound. It was 
to this vessel Captain Semmes es- 
caped, having cast his sword into 
the sea, to keep it from the enemy's 
hands. Xot only was the Alabama 
floated badly after her surrender, 
but she was beguiled into a fight 
with a, ship by far her superior. 
We have said that, to all appear- 
ances, the two vessels were equal. 
This was true, so far as appear- 
ances wont ; but appearances often 
deceive. The Kearsage's sides were 
armored; chains having been placed 
parallel from 1km- rail to the water's 
edge, the whole being neatly cov- 
ered with planking so as to render 
the plating unnoticeable. During 
t he action Captain Semmes noticed 

that while the enemy's shells tore 
and lacerated the sides of his own 
ship, the shot and shell of the Ala- 
bama produced little effect upon 
the Kearsage's. 

Captain Semmes went from South- 
ampton, where he landed from the 
Deerhound, to London, being well 
received by all classes, and much 
patronized by the friends of the 
lost cause. In London he was pre- 
sented with a magnificent sword by 
some officers of the British army 
and navy, to replace the one he had 
saved from dishonor by sinking it 
in the English Channel. 

Thus we see the fate of the Ala- 
bama, a ship well worthy of the 
name she bore, and of the flag that 
hung from her mast-head. She has 
made for herself an undying reputa- 
tion, and it was well that she sank 
off the shores of France, since in a 
few more months she would have 
hauled down, "the stars and bars" 
to run up a "Union Jack," an ac- 
tion which would have been a dis- 
grace to a vessel which had had al- 
most supreme control of the seas 
for nearly two years. Her equip- 
ment, however, or at least her build- 
ing, was illegal according to the 
international laws, and she was 
long a subject of controversy be- 
tween the United States and Eng- 
land, and in 1872 the Union was 
awarded, by an arbitration com- 
mittee which assembled in Geneva, 
the sum of $15,000,000 for the 
losses she and a minor vessel of her 
class, had inflicted on American 

After making a, short tour on the 
continent, in order to recuperate 
his health, Captain Semmes sailed 
for Havana, whence he took passage 
for a, small Mexican port called 
Bagdad; from which place he passed 
up through Texas and Louisiana 
into Alabama, arriving in Mobile 
in the latter part of December. He 
did not delay long here, for every 
able-bodied man was needed by the 
country, and he was in Richmond be- 
fore the 1st of Februarv. On Feb- 



ruary 10, 1865, he was commis- 
sioned Rear- Admiral with the com- 
mand of the James river fleet, con- 
sisting- of eight vessels, three of which 
were iron-clad s. This command 
was not of long duration, for on 
the evacuation of Richmond, April 
3rd, 1865, he blew up his fleet, or- 
ganizing his sailors into a brigade 
of artillery, and marched to Dan- 
ville Junction in order to effect an 
union with the forces of General 
Lee. Admiral Semmes, when he or- 
ganized his brigade, was commis- 
sioned Brigadier-General, a station 
in the army corresponding to that 
of Rear-Admiral in the navv. Fail- 
ing to join Lee, he marched South 
to report to General Johnston at 
Greensboro. He joined Johnston 
and took part in his capitulation on 
May the 1st, after which he dis- 
persed his command. 

The war being over, for Lee had 
surrendered at Appomattox, and 
Johnston at Greensboro, he return- 
ed to Mobile and settled down anew 
in life, being like many another 
loyal Southern man, impoverished 
by the late struggle. He was ar- 
rested by order of Secretary Welles 
and imprisoned, an action directly 
contrary to the terms of capitula- 
tion agreed upon at Greensboro. 
It w as too much for the Secretary 
of the navy that the late commander 
of the Alabama should settle down 
in life again without some interfer- 
ence on his part. While in prison, he 
wrote a very able letter to President 
Johnson stating his wrongs, clearly 
showing by his clear cut logic that 
his imprisonment was unjust, and 
had the good fortune to be liberated 
by the President's third amnesty. 

"in May, 1866, he was elected Pro- 
bate Judge of Mobile county, but 

was not allowed to hold office, being 
forbidden by the Federal authori- 
ties at Washington. He then set 
up a daily paper, but gave it up to 
accept a position in the Louisiana 
Military Institute. After filling this 
position for some time, Admiral 
Semmes returned to Mobile, spend- 
ing the remainder of his life in re- 
tirement near Battle's Wharf, on the 
eastern shore of Mobile Bay. He 
died August 18, 1877, fortified for 
his last journey by all the consola- 
tion his church afforded, for he was 
always a devout Catholic. 

He was ever a friend of old 
Spring Hill, and one of his last 
speeches was delivered within its 
walls. He told his young audience 
on that occasion that whatever 
should be the trials that awaited 
them, it should be their proudest 
boast and glory that they were 
true devoted sons of the Catholic 
Church. This speech did not please 
some Protestants who were present 
on that occasion, but the old 
Admiral, true to the religion of his 
ancestors, was not going to mini- 
mize his words to please any man. 
Those who heard him on that occa- 
sion could never forget the convic- 
tion with which he spoke. 

The name of Semmes will long be 
remembered ; however men may dif- 
fer in their opinions about the cause 
for which he fought, they will all 
agree that a braver sword was never 
drawn than the sword of Semmes, 
and no truer, nobler Catholic heart 
was ever pledged in any cause than 
that heart which flung to the breeze 
the "stars and bars" from the mast- 
head of the Alabama. 

W. H. Kohn. 




" A Castilla y a Leon 
Nuevo mundo dio Colon. 

WING to the world's fair, 
which is to take place at 
Chicago next year, in houor of 
the quadri-centenary of the 
discovery of America, the 
lias become and seems destined to 
remain the theme of conversation 
and writing for some months to 
come. Every paper has something 
to say of him. The magazines and 
periodicals both of this country 
and of Europe appear with long 
articles on his voyages, discoveries, 
etc. His merits and demerits are 
the topics of discussions in many 
drawing rooms; and the libraries* 
and museums of Spain and Italy 
are ransacked for manuscripts and 
sketches which may throw some 
additional light upon his achieve- 

On this account, therefore, we 
have not thought it amiss to give 
a short sketch of the life and char- 
acter of this truly illustrious man 
who by his own efforts and exer- 
tions raised himself from obscurity 
to the highest pinnacle of fame, and 
cast a, new lustre over the already 
resplendent glories of his country. 
I lis early history, like that of 
many other great men, is shrouded 
in an obscurity which the most 
vigilant research has failed entirely 
to penetrate. Like Homer of old, 
since his name has become so re- 
nowned as to confer rather than 
receive distinction, many cities lay 
claim to being his birthplace; anil 
even though Columbus himself said 
that he was a Genoese, still there 
are not wanting many eminent 
writers who for one reason or an- 
other strongly support their differ- 
ent claims. 

The time of his birth is also an 
object of contention. Washington 
Irving s;iys that he was born some- 
time in the year 1435 or 1436, 
while Ilarrisse and some others on 

the contrary, place the date some 
eleven or twelve years later in 1446 
or 1447. The chronology adopted 
by Irving, however, seems to be the 
one generally admitted, for, among 
other weighty reasons, it corres- 
ponds exactly with that, given by 
the Spanish historian, Bernaldez, 
who says that Columbus died at 
Valladolid in 1506, at the age of 
70 years. 

But these are not the only ob- 
scure points in his life. As it was 
deemed an unpardonable crime at 
that time by the Spanish nobility 
to be the child of an honest trades- 
man, his son and biographer, Fer- 
dinand, through a spirit of mis- 
taken pride, has briefly passed over 
his early life and left us to grope 
our way to particulars as best we 
may. All we know of him at this 
time is, that like other children of 
his rank and condition, he was sent 
to school for a few years aud spent 
a short time at the university of 
Pavia, where he studied geometry, 
geography, astronomy and navi- 
gation. Returning home he began 
to help his father in his business of 
wool combing. But this occupation 
was too tame for his adventurous 
spirit. The carding of wool, the 
sound of the spinning wheel, the 
shuffle aud rattle of the shuttles, 
and the noise of the hand-looms, 
were uncongenial to his ardent and 
restless nature. While at work his 
mind would wander far away 
beyond the blue waters of the 
Mediterranean, to lauds which his 
imagination pictured to him as 
earthly paradises; where the 
orange, the lemon, the citron, the 
grape and the almond grew more 
luxuriously than in Genoa; where 
the flowers were sweeter, the trees 
greener and the waters purer than 
those which surrounded his humble 
home; and where over all was 
thrown that spirit of adventure 




which charmed his boyish heart 
and filled his soul with a yearning 
for more daring and exciting deeds 
than those which his present life 
afforded him. He began to long 
for a change. All his ideas were 
centered upon a seafaring life which 
seemed to offer him all that ex- 
citement which he so ardently 
craved. At the age of fourteen, 
having received permission of his 
father, he engaged himself as a 
sailor on board a vessel belonging 
to his uncle Columbo, a hardy 
mariner of those times. Under him 
he had abundant opportunities of 
satisfying his desire for adventure, 
and saw considerable sea fighting 
in the wars which then waged 
between Genoa and Venice. 

He continued to lead the sea- 
faring life until the year 1470, when 
he was shipwrecked in an engage- 
ment with the Turks off Cape St. 
Vincent, and only saved his life by 
clinging to a broken spar. He was 
thrown on the coast of Portugal, 
and after many difficulties and 
hardships made his way to Lisbon, 
where he remained for some time, 
supporting him self by making maps 
and charts and also by occasional 
voyages. There he married Dona 
Filipa, daughter of Bartolomeo 
Monis de Peristrello, who had been 
Governor of Porto Santo, and went 
to reside on the island where' his 
wife owned some property. It was 
here that he first conceived his 
mighty scheme of discovering not 
an unknown continent, but a wes- 
tern passage to Asia which would 
throw open to Europe the then 
much sought after trade of India, 
and lay bare the riches of those 
opulent countries. 

Up to this time navigation had 
been confined within certain limits. 
The unknown regions were peopled 
with all kinds of imaginary dan- 
gers. The majority of sailors never 
went out of sight of land, and 
even the most reckless seldom ven- 
tured far beyond the coast of Africa. 
The broad, boisterous expanse 

which stretched out before them, 
appearing to have no opposite 
shore, seemed "to bound the world 
as with a chaos unto which conjec- 
ture could not penetrate, and enter- 
prise feared to venture." 

It was in this state of tilings that 
Columbus first applied for aid, to 
the king of Portugal, for carrying- 
out his plans. The king listened to 
his scheme with great attention, 
and even referred it to a maritime 
junto charged with all matters 
relating to discoveries. But this 
learned body, imbued with the prin- 
ciples of the age pronounced the 
project extravagant and visionary 
and treated its author with con- 
tempt. He next made proposals 
of discovery to Genoa, \ 7 enice, 
France and England, but in every 
one they were deemed the extra- 
ordinary fancy of a needy adven- 
turer, and were promptly rejected. 

Bruised but not broken by these 
repeated failures, he at length de- 
termined to try in person at the 
Court of Spain, and accordingly 
set out from Lisbon towards the 
end of the year 1484. 

Here his scheme attracted con- 
siderable attention among the 
courtiers, and was particularly 
favored by Queen Isabella. But, as 
the Spanish crown was then at war 
with the Moors, and as the resources 
of the treasury were drained, the 
king did not wish to enter upon an 
enterprise so hazardous and at the 
same time so doubtful as to its 
ultimate success. He did not how- 
ever altogether reject his offers, for 
he was unwilling that any other 
country should obtain the possible 
advantages which might arise from 
the undertaking, but put him off 
from day to da»and from month 
to month, until nearly seven years 
had elapsed since his first appli- 

Weary of these repeated delays, 
and ardently desiring to accomplish 
his object before old age overtook 
him, he resolved to renew his 
application to France, whence he 



had lately received some encourage- 
ment, and set out in 1491 to lay 
his project before Charles Ylli. 
On his way he stopped at the Fran- 
ciscan monastery of La Rabid a, 
near the seaport of Palos de 
Moguer, in Andalusia, to ask a 
little bread and water for his 
son Diego, who accompanied him. 
While receiving this humble alms 
he related his adventures and un- 
folded his plans to the friar Juan 
Perez de Marchefia, who happened 
to pass by. The good friar, who 
was a man of dee]) knowledge and 
extensive information, was greatly 
interested by the conversation of 
Columbus, and struck by the 
grandeur of his views. He entered 
heartily into all his plans. He 
insisted on his remaining at the 
convent several days, and he 
resolved to go himself and renew 
the applications at the court. 

He had formerly held the office of 
''Confessor of the Queen," and rely- 
ing now upon this sacred relation, 
he set out to demand an interview. 
This was easily granted to him, 
and seizing the opportunity, he 
pleaded the cause of Columbus with 
his characteristic enthusiasm, repre- 
senting the solid principles upon 
which the enterprise was founded, 
the advantages that must attend 
its success, and the glory it must 
shed upon the Spanish crown. It 
is probable that Isabella had never 
heard the proposition urged with 
such honest zeal and impressive 
eloquence. Being naturally more 
sanguine and susceptible than the 
king, and more open to warm and 
generous impulses, she was deeply 
moved by the representation of 
Juan Perez, and requested that 
Columbus should be again sent to 
her. The worthy friar lost no time 
in communicating the request of 
his sovereign to his guest, and 
soon Columbus was again on his 
way to court. - 

This time there was no delay. 
The queen had resolved to under- 
take the enterprise, and having so 

determined she was ready to sacri- 
fice even her own jewels if the funds 
for the voyage could be obtained in 
no other way. This last expedient, 
however, was not rendered neces- 
sary, for the king having success- 
fully terminated the Moorish wars 
began to look with more favor 
upon the projected enterprise, and 
soon after caused to be fitted out a 
small fleet composed of the "Santa 
Maria," a decked vessel of ninety 
feet keel, and two caravels or un- 
decked vessels — the "Pinta" and 
the "Nina," both much smaller 
than the "Santa Maria." They 
were manned by only one hundred 
and twenty men, and seemed utterly 
unfit for the great voyage which 
they were about to undertake. 
Columbus, however, who only saw 
in them the means of at length 
accomplishing his long cherished 
scheme, took no notice of their 
defects, but having with most of 
his officers and crew confessed and 
received the sacraments, with a 
glad heart set sail from Palos on 
Friday August 3d, 1492. 

On the way out the fleet touched 
at the Canaries, which were then 
the limit of navigation on that 
side, and pointing the prows due 
west advanced into those unknown 
seas which had so long been the ter- 
ror of navigators, and the barrier 
to their discoveries. The weather 
proved most favorable, and for 
many days they continued on their 
course without any impediments of 
wind or wave. But the days began 
to lengthen into weeks, and these 
again into months, and still 
no land was to be seen. The 
sailors became alarmed. They were 
frightened at the extent of the voy- 
age. They feared, lest, if they should 
continue on, their provisions would 
fail. The very breeze which wafted 
them forward became a source of 
disquietude to them. It had not 
changed since they commenced the 
voyage, and it seemed as if they 
were urged forward by an ever blow- 
inir east wind against which it would 



be impossible to return. They be- 
gan to beg and entreat their com- 
mander to give up so hazardous a 
voyage, and turn their prows home- 
ward. But he, being inexorable, 
they were on the point of mutiny, 
when land was discovered Friday, 
October 12, 1492, just ten weeks 
after leaving Spain. All fears were 
immediately dismissed by the im- 
portance of the discovery. Every 
one wished to go and explore the 
new found country, and as soon as 
the ships were near enough to per- 
mit it, the boats were lowered and 
Columbus, with most of the crew, 
was rowed ashore where he, as grand 
admiral and viceroy of Spain, took 
solemn possession of the country, 
and gave to the island the name of 
San Salvador. He remained some 
days on shore, trading with the 
natives and exploring the island ; 
then understanding from them that 
there were other islands near, he 
pushed on and discovered Cuba and 
Hayti or Hispauiola. Upon this 
last named island he built a fort 
with the timbers of the Santa Maria 
which had been wrecked, and leav- 
ing in it thirty-nine men to form a 
colony, he set out on his return voy- 
age to Spain. There the news of 
his discoveries produced the great- 
est rej oici ngs . He was recei ved w i tli 
magnificent honors by the nation. 
The very people who Lad so lately 
jeered and scoffed at him on account 
of what they deemed the chimerical 
fancy of a madman, now lauded 
him to the skies. The whole coun- 
try turned out to see him, and on 
his approach to the capital, the cit- 
izens formed a grand procession and 
escorted him in triumph within their 
walls. Nor did the king and queen 
show less gratitude. They treated 
him with the dignity due to one who 
had wrought so much for the glory 
of Spain. They caused festivities 
to be held in his honor; received him 
at court with a magnificent pageant; 
granted him the title of Lord Ad- 
miral of all the lands which he should 
discover, and finally fitted out a 

fleet of seventeen vessels which they 
placed under his command in order 
to enable him to continue his dis- 

With these he sailed in September, 
1493. and discovered the Windward 
Islands, Jamaica and Porto Rico; 
but being calumniated at court by 
several adventurers who had accom- 
panied him on his first voyage, he 
returned to Spain and succeeded in 
clearing himself of the several 
charges laid against him. He 
sailed on his third voyage in 1498; 
and it was only then that he touched 
on the mainland. He discovered 
the mouth of the Orinoco, and vis- 
ited Hispauiola, and several other 
islands. But he again became the 
victim of malice and misrepresenta- 
tion at court, and a commissioner 
sent out to inquire into the charges, 
without granting him a hearing, 
placed him in chains and sent him a 
prisoner to Spain. There the news 
of this outrage caused such a burst 
of popular indignation that the 
king would fain have denied having 
had any hand in the perpetration of 
it, and caused him to be set at 
liberty. He did not, however, rein- 
state him in his authority, nor 
treat him with the respect due to 
his person, and the only subsequent 
favor granted to him was the com- 
mand of four caravels to explore 
the Gulf of Mexico. 

He sailed on this, his last journey, 
in 1502, coasted along the south 
side of the Gulf, and after much suf- 
fering from hardship and famine, 
reached San Luca where he lay sick 
for several months. On his recov- » 
ery the queen was dead ; and the 
nobles being jealous of the honors 
which he hud enjoyed, and the king 
himself not realizing the profits 
which he expected from the expedi- 
tion, his claims were rejected and 
he fell into neglect. All his past ser- 
vices were forgotten. The great 
deeds which he had accomplished 
were overlooked, and he was left, as 
he himself puts it, "with no place 
to repair to except an inn, and often 



with nothing to pay for his susten- 
ance." At length, infirm in body, 
but in the full possession of his fac- 
ulties, surrounded only by a few 
faithful friends and adherents, the 
discoverer of a new world died May 
20. 150(5. There is no doubt that 
Columbus, in ability was one of 
the first men of his age, and emi- 
nently fitted for the task which he 
was to perform, for his enlarged 
views and penetrating- mind were 
well adapted for the conception of 
such a scheme, and his persever- 
ance and courage admirably suited 
for the accomplishment of it. 

Still in his life we see a remarkable 
example of the ingratitude of 
princes and the fickleness of multi- 
tudes. Here was a man who, by 
his indefatigable efforts and untir- 
ing zeal had rendered Spain by 
far the most powerful and opulent 
country in the world; who had by 
his discoveries extended her domin- 
ions over thousands and thousands 
of miles; and who had opened up 
the road to the rich mines of Mexico 

and Peru, whence she, later, de- 
rived such material advantage. And 
still, in his old age, we see him aban- 
doned arid despised by the very 
prince and people for whom he had 
achieved such a mighty enterprise, 
and suffered to waste away and die 
for want of proper sustenance. 

It is in his adversity, however, 
that his true greatness of soul ap- 
pears. Then it is that he shows 
forth that true Christian fortitude 
and courage for which he is so em- 
inently noted, and that noble spirit 
which looks, not to this world for 
its reward, and which causes him to 
rejoice in his very sufferings and 
abandonment, since in them he only 
sees himself more closely united to 
his Divine Master. 

However, what his own genera- 
tion denied him, has been most will- 
ingly given by succeeding ones, and 
the name of Columbus now appears 
among the foremost ranks of fame, 
and forms one of the brightest or- 
naments in his nation's history. 



t BOUT the beginning of May 
last year, a friend whose 
mind was bent on agricul- 
tural pursuits, suggested to 
me the idea of taking a sur- 
vey of the country along the 
banks of the Mississippi river. 

I had another intention. I was 
fond of viewing country scenery. 
iWe had both been over the route 
by train. But traveling on those 
occasions was too hurried to allow 
us to see all we desired. 

The time was most favorable for 
our purpose. 1 gave my consent. 
We took a, steamer, as it would af- 
ford us more lime for inspecting the 
scenery as we went along. 

The reader will understand from 
our desire to go slowly down the 
great river, bhatwe did not start 
from St. Paul or Minneapolis. 

Three thousand miles of this slow 
traveling might have given my 
friend more agricultural and myself 
more country scenery than would 
agree with us. The fact is, we 
started from Cotton Port, about 
the middle of Louisiana, where the 
Atchafalaya empties into the Mis- 
sissippi, and ended our voyage with 
the Crescent City. 

On the 9th of May the steamer 
lay in wait for us. A loud and noisy 
bell summoned the passengers on 
board. We soon made acquaint- 
ances with our fellow travellers. 
But most of the first three hours 
were spent in examining the engines 
of the vessel, which were large 
enough to attract any one's atten- 

So interested were we in this oc- 
cupation, that we entirely forgot 



our purpose. It was only when a 
shrill whistle brought us to our 
senses, almost with a fright, that 
we began to think of the object of 
our trip. 

The whistle announced our arrival 
at Baton Rouge. We had often 
passed near the city; now we had 
an opportunity of satisfying all 
our curiosity as regarded it. I 
eagerly seized the opportunity. My 
friend, too, was quite as anxious as 
I was, to set foot in the city. Be- 
fore we had left it, he had talked on 
the topic of agriculture to several 
of the prominent farmers of the 
place. In fact he was so enthusias- 
tic about Baton Rouge, up to the 
time we last met, that I should not 
wonder if he had taken up his abode 
there before this time. But consid- 
ering the object of our trip, the 
place deserves a short description. 

On the east bank of the Missis- 
sippi, on an eminence rising thirty 
feet above the highest overflow, the 
capital of Louisiana stands, tower- 
ing among the lowlands, as if des- 
tined by nature to rule its surround- 
ings. From the height in front of 
the city, one of the most delightful 
views of the river is to be obtained 
as it "sweeps with majestic 
curve" through the plains of vege- 
tation. We beheld the scene, when 
the farms were rich with the crops 
of spring. Back, as far as the eye 
could reach, the tall sugar cane 
waved in the breeze. Splendid villas 
and gardens and groves of fruit 
trees added their variety; while 
amid the luxuriant plains, the river 
sweeps on to the North, until river 
and plain were lost in the distance. 
At the first signal of the bell we re- 
sumed our seats on deck, and talked 
over the scenes we had witnessed. 
My friend was struck with the per- 
fection of farming. He was already 
making great plans for the future. 
As for myself, having been to col- 
lege, and read poets and having 
learned to admire better things, 1 
was rather struck with the poetic 
oraudeur of the scenes around. So 

it happened while my eyes were 
fixed on the orchards and streams 
and gardens, my friend w as express- 
ing his enthusiasm over the plough- 
ing, the sugar cane and the horses. 

Our boat now kept close to the 
western shore. A swift and power- 
ful current was in motion on the op- 
posite side. In the middle, enormous 
trees, torn from their roots by the 
storms, w r ere drifting with irresisti- 
ble rapidity to the Gulf. Slowly, 
therefore, but safely, we went along 
until at nightfall we reached Plaque- 
mine. Plaquemine is a town some- 
thing on the style of Baton Rouge, 
but minus its beautiful situation. 
On the right of the town its bayou 
flows into the Mississippi. But little 
may be said of the beauty of the 
bayou. Longfellow, however, men- 
tions it; that is why I do so. He 
tells us that the A cadi an s, 

"Entering the bayou of Plaque- 
mine, soon were lost in a maze of 
sluggish and devious waters." 

His allusions to the singing of 
birds, however, are also very true. 
Although the hooting of the owl 
and the cries of the peacock grated 
on the ear, a great variety of 
smaller birds made the woods alive 
with "floods of delirious music." 
We experienced the pleasure of their 
songs for some time after leaving 
Plaquemine. Every blow of the 
whistle awoke the woodland music 
from the inmates of the willows 
that hung on the banks of the 

The first day was now well spent. 
The sun had disappeared. All was 
still. ( )nly the soft notes of a mock- 
ing bird arose and died in the dis- 
tance, as we laid our heads on our 
pillows and sank to rest. 

When we awoke the next morning 
we were at. Donaldson ville, forty- 
two miles above New Orleans. We 
stopped here and examined the 
town. Great improvements, as re- 
gards population and commerce, 
had taken place within a few years. 
But for the second day of our trip, 
it was too much like the first to 



need description. There was a 
dearth of hills and valleys, and a 
sameness about the scenery. It is 
true there was some novelty in be- 
holding hundreds of steamers, laden 
with rice and sugar, and in being 
started at times by the whoop of a 
crane. Otherwise, all was the same, 
even the talk of a friend, He was 
still harping- on Baton Rouge. It 
was the last thing he mentioned 
that night. It was the first thing- 
he spoke of the next morning. But 
when the spires of the Southern 
Metropolis were in sight I told him 
to keep quiet about his country 
towns, as we had now come to a 
real city, and quoting Dryden for 
him, J said: 

"For country towns, compared 
with her, appear like shrubs when 
lofty cypresses are near." 

But he only smiled as he said: 

"Forest, you are too educated; it 
was a mis-stroke of Providence when 
you were born a planter's son." 

But then, to show that he did not 
mean to offend, he laughed and, 
bless me, went on again with his old 
hobby, remarking that the soil 
around New Orleans was not so 
good as further up the river. 

I was right glad when we reached 
the city. Several times during our 
stay there, I left him with some of 
his agricultural friends, while I ran 
off to visit some of my old college 

Our stay in the city was a climax 
to our trip. We had almost a sur- 
feit of enjoyments. With visiting, 
banqueting and what not, we be- 
came quite dissipated. When we 
returned to Cotton Port our neigh- 
bors scarcely knew us. They de- 
clared we must have been having a 
high time of it. Old Jim Taylor, 
the gray-bearded sage of the town, 
raised a great laugh at our ex- 

"Now be honest," said he; "how 
often were you on a. spree in the last 
•two weeks?" 

I began to be sorry we had 
ever made the trip. After five or 
six days, it is true, we were settled 
down; but I think it will be some 
time before we again sail along "the 
turbulent river," unless we stop be- 
fore we meet our friends in the Cres- 
cent City. 

Forest Borbelox. 



works of William IT. 
Prescott form a cluster of 
gems which are without their 
equal in modern English 
literature. No greater proof 
could be given of this au- 
surpassing excellence than 
the unbounded popularity which he 

Prescott's works, on the whole, 
seem most perfectly to meet the de- 
sires of the people, both young and 
old; for he possesses sufficient 
sprightliness to amuse the former, 
and an ample amount of serious 
thought for the latter. 

It is to his untiring exertions that 
we are indebted for much wholesome 
knowledge of the remarkably di- 

versified history of the Spaniards. 
He made this nation and the fair 
and sunny land of Spain the seat of 
his very arduous labors. He seems 
to have had the welfare of the Span- 
ish nation, particularly a part of it, 
deeply at heart, and it was his ear- 
nest endeavor to cast a halo of 
glory upon the children of the Cid. 

The United States may indeed feel 
proud of so illustrious an historian. 

Conforming strictly to the critical 
examination of Prescott, we shall 
consider him as he appears in his 
writings, enveloped in a mighty 
maze of excellencies, glaring preju- 
dices and wonderful inaccuracies. 

His style is natural, expressive 
and polished to a nicety. It is well 



suited to historical writing, even 
much more so than the florid and 
often bombastic manner of his fel- 
low countryman, George Bancroft. 
Prescott's stronghold lies in descrip- 
tion. In some of these he rises to 
the sublime. His pictures are exe- 
cuted with all the vividness and 
truth of nature. They stand out 
with so much of the beauty of real- 
ity that a master artist, represent- 
ing on canvas what the author lias 
depicted by means of language, 
would have in glowing colors a 
beautiful valley of Mexico or the 
retreating armies of the Noche 

Since it is as an historian that 
Prescott has acquired his fame as a 
writer, we shall see how closely he 
conforms to the three essential 
qualities of a good historian— re- 
search, accuracy and impartiality. 

With regard to the first of these 
qualities, Prescott's laborious re- 
search is unquestionable. He has 
examined and carefully sifted origi- 
nal authorities bearing upon his 
works. He regarded all expense 
and all labor as naught, provided 
he obtained the desired information. 
He has moreover brought to his 
undertaking great stores of learn- 
ing and extraordinary industry 
and care in the arrangement of his 
extensive materials. Wherever ori- 
ginal writers disagree, Prescott is 
not without discretion, for he fairly 
considers their respective argu- 
ments, placing most reliance in 
those which seem to be most accu- 
rate. This manner of discrimina- 
tion always proves agreeable to the 
reader. There is, besides, some sat- 
isfaction in perusing an author who 
thus openly shows that he is pro- 
foundly versed in his subject-matter. 
No one who has carefully read Pres- 
cott can blame him for a want of 

The accuracy, however, which 
is required in all good histo- 
rians, suffers at times from his 
blind prejudice. Whenever he con- 
fines himself to bare facts and is 

not misled by bigoted authority, 
his statements may generally be re- 
lied on. He appears to have 
thought it useful to furnish his 
readers with all the arguments and 
views on both sides of those ques- 
tions which arc of sufficient im- 
portance to merit such a treatment. 
He may perhaps be censured for 
prolonging this to an undue length. 
In any case it is the safer course, 
for thus supplied with all that can 
be said pro and con, the reader 
can judge for himself. 

The next question we must con- 
sider in treating Prescott as an 
historian is, was he impartial ? We 
feel great delicacy in asking our- 
selves this, for here it is we must ex- 
pect to meet with very great blem- 
ishes upon his fair fame. Prescott's 
mind was clouded with inborn pre- 
judices. That he bore strong an- 
tipathy to the Catholic Church can 
easily be inferred from the whole 
tenor of his writings, "which are as 
virulent a libel against the Holy 
Roman Catholic Church as one 
could possibly find elsewhere 
amongst the writings of those who 
set themselves up as open revilers of 
that holy institution."' To prove 
the erroneous theory that the es- 
tablishment of the Spanish Inquisi- 
tion was in accordance with the 
principles of the Catholic Church, he 
repeats the stale calumny, that the 
odious proposition, "the end justi- 
fies the means," embodies a Catholic 
doctrine. In this Prescott commits 
another grievous fault, by turning 
completely out of the path of his- 
tory to give vent to his overflowing- 

In Ferdinand and Isabella, he at- 
tacks the doctrine of confession, 
which he designates "the artful in- 
sinuation' ' of- priests to influence 
the people. 

In contradiction to all reliable 
history, he persists in asserting that 
the most holy Saint Dominic was 
the founder of the Ancient Inquisi- 
tion. The sufferings of the unfor- 
tunate and cruelly persecuted Jews 



and Moors, as he styles them, share 
his deepest and most heartfelt sym- 
pathy. He seems to have entirely 
exhausted his supply of humanity 
upon these; Catholics, in conse- 
quence, with whom he had occasion 
to deal are made the unhappy vic- 
tims of his bitter antipathy. 

Reared from infancy in an atmos- 
phere of bigotry to everything 
Catholic, we could hardly expect 
Prescott to divest himself alto- 
gether of his early impressions and 
meet the subject of that terrible In- 
quisition with a mind calm and 
wholly unbiassed. Still we might, 
in all justice, have required that he, 
as the faithful historian he pretends 
to be, should have acted here as he 
did in other places; that is, by 
showing us the redeeming as well as 
the heinous features of the Inquisi- 
tion. His research in this should 
have been as profound as it was in 
other parts of his work. Regard 
for his own dignity should have 
prevented him from being led by 
professedly prejudiced writers, such 
as the apostate Liorente and 
Limboreh, the inveterate enemy of 
the Spanish name. Profligates 
like these he cites in a matter of 
such importance, without ever ques- 
tioning their authority. 

In the History of the Conquest of 
Mexico, the work of which we are 
speaking, we find blind prejudice be- 
traying him into most deplorable 
errors. The lurking venom that 
fills the pages of this otherwise val- 
uable book, is often the cause of 
gross accusations heaped upon the 

Such faults are unworthy of the 
enlightened mind of Prescott. What- 
ever his religious tenets were, it is 
certain, beyond doubt, "that his 
prejudice against every person and 
everything Catholic flows in a strong 
and turbid Current, which bears him 
along on its foamy waters and 
completely overwhelms, at inter- 
vals, his otherwise clear intellect." 

An example or two will prove 
this: speaking of infidelity and 

the manner of its punishment, he 
says: "This doctrine, monstrous 
as it is, was the creed of the Rom- 
ish, in other words, of the Christian 
Church." In another place, relat- 
ing the conversion of the Aztec na- 
tion to Christianity, he remarks: 
"It was not difficult to pass from 
the fasts and festivals of one re- 
ligion to the fasts and festivals of 
the other — to transfer their homage 
from the fantastic idols of their own 
creation to the beautiful forms in 
sculpture and in painting which 
decorated the Christian Cathedral, 
etc." < 

"With all those gross and bitter- 
prejudices, Prescott could never 
have entered cordially into the feel- 
ings and properly explained the 
motives and conduct of people 
whose religion he so violently 

Notwithstanding his excessive im- 
partiality, "he kindles with his 
subject, enters heartily into his 
stirring scenes and startling adven- 
tures, shares in the sufferings and 
triumphs of the Conquerors." 

Prescott's prejudice has led him, 
as we have said, to falsify his works 
and he could be justly criticised 
under the four heads of falsifica- 
tion, viz: False statements ; omit- 
ting what does not strongly favor 
the writer's views; artfully insinu- 
ating wrong motives; grossly mis- 
representing facts themselves. 

We do not intend to make this a 
lengthy criticism, and as the devel- 
opment of the last named defects 
of Prescott would require consider- 
able space, we shall rest content 
with mentioning them. 

Taking the works of Prescott as 
a whole, we cannot deny that they 
are truly deserving of great admira- 

Yet "We regret still more the 
faults of his works, because they 
will descend to posterity as a stand- 
ard series of works of American 
literature, of which the author's 
country may justly be proud." 

Henry Le Blanc. 





[From Mobile Register.] 

EDNESDAY evening, Feb- 
ruary 10th, the faculty and 
students of the college as- 
sembled in the exhibition 
hall to witness the semi- 
annual entertainment given 
by the Junior Literary Society. 

The play was "The Expiation," a 
drama in three acts, and was in 
every respect a perfect success, gain- 
ing more favor than any previous 
effort of the Juniors. It is a piece 
full of noble christian sentiments. 
The prevailing idea is, that justice 
and innocence, though "crushed to 
earth" for a time, will eventually 
rise triumphant over all oppression 
and persecution. "The Expiation" 
is interspersed with the most touch- 
ing and exciting scenes ; these call 
for the highest efforts of elocution, 
to bring them out with effect. So 
well were the different parts rendered 
by the youthful performers that it 
was said by not a few, who have had 
long experience in college life, that 
the "little boys" never did so well. 
The costumes worn by the young 
gentlemen were rich and appropri- 
ate; these, together with the splen- 
did scenery with which the stage is 
now furnished, greatly contributed 
to the good effect of the performance. 
Promptly at 7 p.m. the College 
orchestra, always good, but this 
year better than before, discoursed 
in a masterly manner a selection 
from Meyerbeer's "Les Huguenots." 
The cast of characters was as fol- 

Count Flavy John Glennon 

Einaldi— His intendant L. Lambert 

Bepi30— Guardian of the Prison, T. Hems 
Loredan Ut^o-^ J C. Hebert 

Gerard \ llm S nts \ J. Hanlon 

Inn-keeper J.Hall 

Kobert, of Lusigny— A boy captive 

of Flavy — J. Kearns 

First Assassin S. Nott 

Second Assassin J. D ' Aquin 

John Glennon, son of Mr. James 

K. Glennon, of Mobile, surpassed 
even the most sanguine expec- 
tations in his rendition of the 
character of "Count Flavy." Mr. 
L. Lambert, as "Rinaldi," Flavy's 
intendant, distinguished himself as 
an amateur. Mr. T. Heins imper- 
sonating "Beppo," guardian of the 
prison, was especially admired for 
the grace and perfect self-composure 
with which he acted his role. Messrs. 
C. Hebert and J. Hanlon, as 
knights of the red cross, played 
their parts to perfection and are 
deserving of the greatest praise. In 
the opinion of all the members of 
the faculty, Mr. C. Hebert, as 
"Loredan," the hero, won the palm. 
This gentleman is truly eloquent. 
" Pectus est (juod disertos facit." 
A better person could not have been 
found than Mr. J. Hall to fulfil the 
duties of "Inn-keeper." Last but 
not least among the principal char- 
acters was Master J. Kearns, as 
"Robert, of Lusigny." This small 
boy was indeed well suited to the 
character which he impersonated. 
Messrs. Nott and D'Aquin wen? 
truly "vile assassins," as they ap- 
peared on the stage. 

The secondary parts were also well 
sustained by those to whom they 
were confided. 

The play ended with the grandest 
tableau ever witnessed at the col- 

The idea of this tableau, taken 
from the spirit of the drama, is 
beautifully expressed by our Ameri- 
can poet, William Cullen Bryant, in 
the following lines : 

"Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, 
The eternal years of God air hers; 

But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, 
And dies among it> worshippers." 



OW I would like to portray 
faithfully what I have seen 
and admired so often ! Alas, 
this is a task too difficult for 
me. I must leave it to a 
more skilful pen. This paper 
does not pretend to be an elaborate 
and exhaustive description of Mex- 
ico and the historic castle with its 
picturesque surroundings. All J 
intend is to give you some idea of 
the beautiful scenery through which 
we are going to pass, and of the 
different objects of interest which 
we meet on our way to Chapultepec, 
the charming summer palace of 
Montezuma, the usual residence of 
Mexico's last Emperor, Maximilian, 
and the present abode of President 

Mexico ranks among the largest 
cities in the Western Hemisphere, 
and with its many steeples, towers, 
domes and monuments, presents, 
from whatever direction approach- 
ed, an aspect of grandeur and 
magnificence unsurpassed by any in 
the world. 

It is, indeed, an object worthy to 
be described by the genius of a 
Prescott. No wonder when, on the 
evening of November 7th, 1519, its 
long lines of glittering edifices met 
the eyes of Cortes and his followers, 
"it looked like a thing of fairy crea- 
tion, rather than the work of mortal 

The streets are wide and straight, 
well paved, lighted, and furnished 
with spacious sidewalks, a feature 
rarely met with in Spanish-Ameri- 
can towns. 

Following one of these grand 
avenues, the "San Francisco," in a 
westerly direction, we come to the 
"Alameda," the most beautiful and 
fashionable promenade of the city. 

Cool . -iikI shady walks, tastefully 
laid out beneath stately beech trees, 
well kept gardens, with their spark 

riot,- is' 


summer-houses, offer 

img fountains, 

and charmiii! 


indeed a delightful retreat from 
the dust and turmoil of the city. 

No wonder the "Alameda" is a 
favorite resort on Sunday morn- 
ings, when two regimental bands 
of music play there for several 

But there are other things worth 
seeing. If you feel inclined you may 
amuse yourself by watching a large 
herd of deer, of all sizes, kept in an 
enclosure in a more remote part of 
the park. Then you may admire 
the "Salon de Mexico," at present 
used by the lottery as its principal 
office. It is remarkable for the ma- 
terials used in its construction. To 
a height of ten feet it is built of 
brick andiron, while the superstruc- 
ture is of variegated glass. 

Leaving the park, we drive along 
two or three sunny streets, pass the 
statue "El Caballito de Troya," 
and reach the famous "Paseo de la 
Reforma," with its long lines of an- 
cient monuments, leading to the 

Passing by a few scattered resi- 
dences, public baths and bull-fight 
arenas, we come into the open conn- 
try. There are still a few miles to 
travel; but this part of our journey 
is perhaps even more pleasant than 
the first. We are now driving be- 
neath the thick foliage of stately 
trees, planted on either side of the 
road; thus we hardly notice dis- 

The "Paseo de la Reforma" is 
closed by a ponderous wooden gate. 
Passing through, notice to our left 
the road leading to "Tacuballa," 
in former years an Indian village; 
now a much frequented summer 

Our road leads to the right, and 
following it, we come to another 
gate; this time of iron. Once be- 
yond it, we see above us the ancient 
castle in all its splendor, rising up 
to a, noble height, and lording it 



over the surrounding country, 

woods, villages and even the mighty 
city itself. 

Clustering* on the sides and crown 
ing the summit of the royal hill of 
Chapultepec are seen the same 
groves of gigantic cypress, which at 
the time of Cortes, flung their broad 
shadows over the land, and filled 
the hearts of these daring adven- 
turers with heartfelt delight. 

The past, however, must not make 
us forget the present. You may be 
interested in zoology; if so, you 
will not neglect to pay a visit to the 
gardens near by, in which yon will 
find, in their cages, lions, tigers, 
panthers, monkeys and other wild 
animals. After we have proceeded 
some distance our road branches 
off in three different directions. 
The one in the centre leads straight 
up to the summit and to the castle. 
The other two follow a winding 
course, through the woods and gar- 
dens at the foot and on the slope 
of the hill. These are indeed worth 
seeing. The enormous trees all 
reverend with the gloom of de- 
parted centuries, will not fail to 
awaken in you feelings of wonder 
and astonishment. They are more 
than fifty feet in circumference, and 
were centuries old at the time of the 
conquest. Amidst a perfect laby- 
rinth of sweet-scented groves and 
shrubberies, fountains of purest 
water are throwing up their spark- 
ling jets, and scattering refreshing 
dews over the fragrant blossoms 
and gorgeous flowers of our sunny 
clime, Charming bowers, with rus- 
tic, moss-covered benches, nestle 
here and there in the recesses of the 
woods and are reflected in the clear 
waters of large basins, well-stocked 
with fish, which furnish many a 
dainty morsel to the numerous pic- 
nic parties that never grow weary 
of visiting this lovely spot. 

As we wend our way through the 
forest and up the hill, we get frequent 
glimpses of the castle through the 
tops of the trees. Of course the 
ancient palace of Montezuma, 
with its royal splendor, oriental 

magnificence and fairy-like sur- 
roundings, has long since disap- 
peared. The glories of the past we 
find no more except in the chroni- 
cles of the Spanish explorers who 
beheld them, and who, in speaking 
of them, invariably break forth in 
most enthusiastic admiration. 

The present castle was erected by 
the young vicero3 T , Galvez, at the 
close of the seventeenth century. It 
is indeed an imposing structure, pre- 
senting, with its stately buildings, 
lofty towers and massive walls, a 
front of 900 feet. It has been heav- 
ily armed and is used as a fortress. 
The military college, sentinels post- 
ed here and there, cannon mounted 
in the embrasures, detachments of 
soldiers drilling under the command 
of their officers, all these are in 
striking contrast with the peaceful, 
I almost said idyllic scenes, through 
which we just passed. Within there 
are innumerable rooms, galleries, 
halls and towers, all built in the 
style of former ages, but of the best 
materials to be had at that time. 
All are beautiful, but the dining 
hall and main tower deserve spe- 
cial mention. The former for its 
vastness and noble simplicity, the 
latter on account of the magnifi- 
cent view it enables one to get from 
its platform. The sight is indeed 
one of the finest in the environs of 
Mexico. The landscape is not dis- 
figured here as in many other quar- 
ters, by the white and barren 
patches so offensive to the sight; 
but the eye wanders over an un- 
broken expanse of meadows and 
cultivated fields, waving with rich 
harvests of European grain, where 
Montezuma's gardens once stretched 
for miles around the base of the 
hill. The buildings suffered consid- 
erably during the war of 1847, when 
the castle was * bombarded for sev- 
eral days and finally taken by 
storm; but all damages have long- 
since been repaired, and the castle 
of Chapultepec now stands one of 
the finest and most interesting 
relics of the ancient empire of 
Mexico. Louis G. Morphy. 




^ELDOM have we seen such 
wide-spread sympathy as was 
awakened by the death of 
Cardinal Manning. The press 
of this country and of Europe 
was unanimous in his praise. 
All shades of political creeds united 
to do homage to his memory. The 
most advanced Radical and the 
most conservative Tory honored 
him. Catholic and Protestant, Jew 
and Free-thinker vied with each 
other in extolling' his many noble 
qualities. The million ai re employer 
and the hard working laborer la- 
ment him as their truest friend. 
The great and powerful revered him 
for the noble simplicity with which 
he bore his high dignity, whilst Lon- 
don's myriad poor bewailed him as 
a father who truly loved them. 
Englishmen honored him, for he was 
English — thoroughly English. Irish- 
men loved him, for they knew that 
no truer friend or sincerer advocate 
of their cause ever lived. And 
Americaus admired him for the sin- 
cerity of his motives and the liberty 
loving, bold democratic spirit which 
made him see things in this country 
in a clearer light than most of his 

Cardinal Manning was an ideal 
Bishop. His very name brings to 
our minds those saintly fathers of 
the early church— the Ambrose, the 
Augustin, the Athenasius, the 
Ephrem. Born in heresy, he was 
destined to become one of the 
Church's most faithful exponents to 
the many who looked on the Cath- 
olic religion as something foreign 
and incompatible with the true 
English spirit. His amiability and 
personal holiness soon disarmed the 
long-seated prejudices of the aris- 
tocracy and won the hearts of the 
masses, and soon he was known 
throughout England as "The Great 
Archbishop." But we must say a 
few words about the early life of 
this indefatigable champion of truth 
and friend of the poor. 

Henry Edward Manning, Cardinal 
Priest and Archbishop of Westmin- 
ster, was born at Totterige, in Her- 
fordshire, July 15, 1808. His 
father, William Manning, was a 
merchant of considerable means, 
and was for a time a member of 
Parliament, and governor of the 
B a n k of E n gl and. Y o u n g M an ni n g 
was early sent to Harrow and 
thence to Balliol, where he was grad- 
uated A. B., in first class honors, in 
1830. He soon after became a fel- 
low of Merton College. For a time 
Gladstone was one of his fellow- 
students, and ever afterwards one 
of his dearest friends. In 1832 he 
took orders in the Church of Eng- 
land, and two years later, in 1834, 
he became rector of Lavington and 
Graffham, in Sussex. Superiors 
were not slow in recognizing the 
talents of the young minister, and 
in 1840 he was made Archdeacon 
of Chichester, and a few years later 
he was appointed select preacher to 
the University of Oxford. 

The Tractarian movement, which 
claimed for the Church of England 
the true heirship of Apostolic succes- 
sion, then agitated the minds of the 
learned men of England. Into this 
movement the Archdeacon of Chi- 
chester threw himself, heart and 
soul. John Henry, afterwards Car- 
dinal Newman, was the guiding 
spirit of the movement. Manning- 
did not escape his influence, and 
soon became one of his most enthu- 
siastic admirers. When Newman 
joined the Catholic Church, there 
were many in England who regarded 
Manning as the mainstay of Angli- 
canism. But the words and exam- 
ple of the future Oratorian were 
soon to bring forth fruit, and not 
long afterward Archdeacon Man- 
ning resigned his archdeaconry and, 
on April 6, 1857, he was received 
into the Catholic Church. 

Mr. Manning now repaired to 
Rome to pursue his ecclesiastical 
studies. Me was soon raised to the 



priesthood, bur, although he re- 
turned to England it was not yet- 
to reside there permanently. For 
several years he spent most of his 
time in Rome, where he attended the 
lectures of the Acadernia Ecclesias- 
tics,, and where he became person- 
ally acquainted with Pius IX, who 
in 1854 bestowed on him the ''de- 
gree of Doctor by diploma." 

In 1858 he was appointed Pro- 
vost of Westminster, and made 
Protonotary Apostolic, and on the 
death of the learned and saintly 
Cardinal Wiseman, he was raised 
to the dignity of Archbishop of 

The Chapter of Westminster had 
not sent the name of Dr. Manning 
on the list of three names which was 
forwarded to Rome on the death of 
Cardinal Wiseman, for his successor, 
but Pius IX, setting aside the names 
presented by the Chapter, appoint- 
ed Dr. Manning to the vacant see. 

The wisdom of the choice has 
been proved by the works which 
Archbishop Manning has done for 
his diocese. In the first audience 
which the new Archbishop had with 
Pius IX, after his consecration as 
Archbishop of Westminster, the 
Holy Father said to him, "Ah, 
whilst the see was vacant many 
people said many things to me 
against my placing you there, but 
I had a voice in my ear that con- 
tinually said to me 'Put him there, 
put him there.' " It was clearly the 
secret whisperings of the "Spirit of 

Archbishop Manning now applied 
himself to his first great work, and 
in fact the constant daily work of 
his life, the relief of the laboring 
class and the education of the chil- 
dren of the poor. Coming from the 
ruling class, he was at first received 
with distrust by "that fierce democ- 
racy, jealous of the class to which 
Manning belonged by birth, and 
still barely tolerant of the faith 
which was his by choice. ' ' But they 
soon saw in him only the man of 
God struggling to alleviate the mis- 

eries of his fellow men. His state- 
ment that not one stone of his 
Cathedral should be laid until every 
child of his diocese was provided 
with a free Catholic education, gives 
us the key note of his life. Faithfully 
did he carry out this motto. The 
soul of a little child, the son per- 
haps of some poor Irish laborer, in 
the most miserable lane in London, 
was as dear to him as the first peer 
in the land. To save these poor 
souls was more important than the 
building of cathedrals. The true 
Catholic kuows that he can worship 
God as well in the humble chapel as 
in the most stately edifice. These 
humble churches had to be built in 
every part of his diocese, and little 
schools had to be provided for, so 
that the poor, the largest and best 
loved portion of his flock, could at- 
tend to their religious duties, and 
their children receive a Catholic 
education. When there was a ques- 
tion of the poor, there was no detail 
that he did not consider worthy 
of his closest personal attention. 
Faithfully did he accomplish his 
work, and now at his death more 
than thirty thousand Catholic chil- 
dren are receiving the benefit of a 
free Catholic education. 

It was not that Cardinal Manning 
did not appreciate the value of 
higher education, but he could not 
leave the thousands in ignorance to 
spend his time for a privileged few, 
who, besides, could easily procure 
the advantages they desired. The 
end and aim of his life, like that of 
his Divine Master, was to bring 
man nearer to God. The laboring 
classes of London had learned to 
look up to the "Great Archbishop," 
knowing that he would never cham- 
pion their cause unless they had 
right-on their side, nor would he 
ever abandon *them through fear 
of displeasing the great or pow- 

His death occurring on the same 
day as that of the Duke of Clarence, 
heir to the English throne, showed 
the high esteem in which he was 



held, for whilst the sorrow for the 
Duke may be said to have been 
official and limited to a certain 
class, that for the Cardinal was 
truly irrespective of class or creed; 
it was universal. There was not a 
poor man in London that did not 
feel that he had lost a friend and 
father. There was not a laborer 
that did not realize that his best 
advocate was gone. 

Next to his devotion to the cause 
of the poor and the laboring class, 
may be mentioned his friendship 
towards Ireland. He was always 
the steadfast friend of Ireland, and 
by his influence has done more than 
any living man, save Gladstone, to- 
wards paving the way for Home 
Rule. He was too enlightened not 
to see the iniquities of English rule 
in Ireland, and he was too honest 
to try and conceal or excuse them. 
He held up the Irish people as a 
model of constancy and morality 
in his sermons and lectures. He 
did not fear to tell the English 
Catholic to look to the Irish peas- 
ant, and there he would behold the 
true spirit of faith. 

Ireland owes much to Cardinal 
Manning's influence, an influence 
greatly increased by the fact of his 
English birth and the remembrance 
of his services in the cause of Angli- 
canism. It was an unheard of thing 
before Cardinal Manning's time, 
that priests should be accorded the 
same social distinctions as the 
Anglican clergymen. 

He was a man of few enemies; 
all seemed to revere him. His 
church was filled with people who 
had formerly listened to him as 
rector of Lavington, and at his 
death his eulogy was pronounced 
in a Jewish synagogue. 

In 1875 Pius IX created him a 
Cardinal Priest, but his new dignity 
did not in any way change his 
simplicity of life and his readiness 
to participate in public affairs or 
private enterprises worthy of his 
co-operation. His prodigious en- 
ergy and self-sacrificing devotion 

to whatever cause he chanced to 
have in hand was something mar- 

In the midst of his incessant 
labors he found time for considera- 
ble literary work, and it is simply 
surprising how a man so occupied 
with the care of a large diocese could 
have found time to have written so 

We copy the following list of his 
principal works from a New York 
paper published a few days after his 

"Temporal Sovereignty of the 
Popes," 1860; "The Last Glories of 
the Holy See Greater than the 
First," 1861; "The Present Crisis 
of the Holy See Tested bv Prophe- 
cy," 1861; "The Temporal Power 
of the Yicar of Jesus Christ," 1862; 
"Sermons on Ecclesiastical Subjects, 
with an Introduction on the Rela- 
tions of England to Christianity," 
1863; "The Crown in Council on the 
'Essays and Reviews,' a Letter to 
an Anglican Friend," 1864; "The 
Convocation and the Crown in Coun- 
cil; a Second Letter to an Anglican 
Friend," 1864; "The Temporal 
Mission of the Holy Ghost; or, Rea- 
son and Revelation," 1865; "The 
Reunion of Christendom: A Pasto- 
ral Letter to the Clergy," 186(3; 
"The Centenary of St. Peter and 
the General Council/' 1867; "Eng- 
land and Christendom, " 1867; "Ire- 
land: a Letter to Earl Grey," 1868: 
"Petri Privilegiuni: Three Pastoral 
Letters to the Clergy of the Diocese 
of Westminster," 1871; "The four 
Great Evils of the Day," 1871: 
"The Fourfold Sovereignty of God," 
1871; "The Daemon of Socrates," 
1872; "Ca^sarism and Ultramon- 
tanism," 1874; "The Internal Mis- 
sion of the Holy Ghost," 1875: 
"The Catholic Church and Modern 
Society," 1880, and "The Eternal 
Priesthood," 1883, besides numer- 
ous sermons and pamphlets." 

Cardinal Manning was in no sense 
of the word a politician, but when 
there was some good measure pro- 
posed which was likely to benefit 



the poor and laboring classes, he 
gave it his warmest approval, al- 
though respecting studiously the 
opinions of others. "I always hold 
myself," he wrote, "to be officially 
bound to neutrality, and leave my 
clergy and flock perfectly free.'' 

He was mainly instrumental in 
bringing to a happy conclusion the 
great strike of 1889. It was a most 
edifying sight to behold the venera- 
ble old man, then in his 81st year, 
lending all his remaining energy to 
the happy termination of the great- 
est strike in the history of London. 
He saw the justice orthe laborers' 

demands; he saw the temperate be- 
havior, in the midst of those natu- 
rally exciting scenes, and it is to 
him in a great measure due that 
the victory was won by the la- 

Cardinal Manning occupied a 
unique position in the Catholic 
Church of England. His death on 
January 14th has left a vacancy 
difficult to fill, and his memory 
will long be cherished as that of one 
of the highest ornaments of the 
English Hierarchy. 

E. T. Fitzgerald. 


N one of those long sultry. days 
in June, when even the restless 
small boy leaves his play to 
seek shelter from the scorch- 
ing rays of an Alabama sun, 
a party of more advanced 
students were lazily lounging in the 
shade of a wide-spreading live oak, 
making plans for the coming vaca- 

One of the number who had spent 
several enjoyable summers on the 
Gulf coast was telling of the mysteri- 
ous music heard at Pascagoula. 

Great was his atonishment at my 
ignorance of its existence. "How is 
it possible," said he, "you could 
have lived all your life so near the 
spot where this strange phenomenon 
has for centuries been the wonder 
and delight of visitors, without at 
least hearing of it." 

Thereupon I promised James, for 
such was the speaker's name, that 
I would visit Pascagoula during the 
Summer, to enjoy the delightful 
music of which he spoke so enthusi- 

The few remaining days of the 
scholastic year passed rapidly. 

I kept my promise and met my 
friend on the appointed day at the 
Louisville .and Nashville Railway 
station of Pascagoula. 

We hired a magnificent boat, and 

that same evening our gay party, 
all Spring Hill College boys, started 
for the mouth of the river, where 
the music is best heard. We soon 
reached the spot ; the hush of night 
had already settled on land and sea. 
Oh ! for a poet's fancy to describe 
the scene that met my admiring 
gaze ! What emotions filled my soul 
as silently I looked and wondered ! 
Would that words of mine could 
express Avhat then 1 felt ! 

"Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall 
of the forest, 

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 
On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a tremu- 
lous gleam of the moonlight." 

"A dewy freshness 1 ' filled "the silent air;" 

"On the ear" 
Dropped " the light drip of the suspended oar." 

In the midst of this profound and 
universal stillness, my soul flooded 
with the sublimest feelings it ever 
experienced, 'the mysterious music' 

" rose, a * * * mournful strain, 

Like some lone spirit's o'er the main: 

'Twaa musical, hut sadly sweet, 

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 

And take a long unmeasured tone. 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown." 

'It seemed to issue from caverns or 
grottoes in the bed of the river and 
sometimes I even imagined it was 
ascending from the water under the 
very keel of our boat.' 



We drifted along noiselessly, no 
one even giving expression to the 
bursts of admiration that sponta- 
neously well up from the heart on 
occasions such as these. 

With my eager gaze fixed upon 
this celestial scene, "this image of 
heaven," so absorbed was I in con- 
templation, that I did not observe 
my friend who had given orders 
to depart. How loath I was to 
leave! "James," said I, as we were 
quietly rowing homewards, "this 
music" which is called mysterious, 
must have some explanation ; you, 
perhaps, may have one to offer." 

James knew my inquisitive nature 
and had anticipated such a query. 
He was, therefore, only waiting for 
this opportunity to impart the fund 
of information he had gathered on 
the subject. 

"The only result." said he, "of 
scientific investigation in search of 
a satisfactory explanation of this 
marvel of nature, is the conjecture, 
that this music, 'so strangely sweet,' 
is caused by certain species of shell 
fish which I suppose are to be found 
no where else, since we never hear of 
any other 'mysterious music' than 
that at Pascagoula." 

"But there is another answer to 
your question. I heard from the 
lips of an aged Indian, the last sad 
remnant of the once flourishing 
nation of the Pascagoulasor Bread- 
eaters, a most charming legend, 
which I am sure will please you now 
as much as I was delighted when 
the old man was narrating it." 


"On the banks of this river, near 
the spot where we just now heard 
the music, there dwelt a. tribe of 
Indians differing in color, customs 
and religion from their neighbors, 
the Pascagoula s. They were des- 
cended from ancestors who, as they 
claimed, were born in the depths 
of the sea. They were a simple, 
light-hearted, harmless race; unlike 
other savage tribes, they seldom or 
never engaged in war. They lived 

for the most part on fish and oys- 
ters, of which the adjoining Gulf of 
Mexico furnished an abundant sup- 
ply. Strange to say, they were not 
much given to hunting, but spent 
their time in feasting and merry- 
making. In a rudely constructed 
temple they worshipped a mermaid. 
At night, when the moon was at her 
zenith, they collected around the 
grotesquely carved image of the 
mermaid and with instruments of 
most fantastic shape paid solemn 
homage to that idol with such en- 
chanting music as human ears have 
never heard. 

"In the year 1539, a short time 
after Mauvila or Mobile had been 
destroyed by Soto, there appeared 
among ' these children of the sea' a 
strange man. His beard was long 
and white; his robe black and flow- 
ing; in his right hand he held a cru- 
cifix; from a small book which he 
drew from his bosom, the reverend 
man explained the sacred truths of 
religion. No one knows what the 
language of these people was, neither 
does tradition tell us how this de- 
voted priest of God succeeded in 
making himself understood by his 
neophytes. However the case may 
be, our holy religion, which comes 
from God and receives its increase 
from God, was making wonderful 
progress, and great hopes were en- 
tertained by the zealous missionary 
that he would very soon be able to 
call every individual of the tribe— 
his spiritual child . But these praise- 
worthy designs were suddenly 
thwarted by an awful prodigy. 

"One night when the moon 'in full- 
orbed glory' was rolling 'through 
the dark-blue depths,' with no mist 
to obscure 'nor cloud, nor speck 
nor stain to break the serene of 
heaven,' at the solemn hour of 
twelve, there arose, on a sudden, a 
most violent and sweeping tempest, 
as if .Eolus with his potent rod had 
lashed into a whirlwind, the gentle 
zephyrs of the southland. 

"The crystal waters were con- 
vulsed ; thev heaved from their 



depths and great angry billows roll- 
ing furiously from side to side, were 
dashed back with terrible rebound 
by the opposing banks. Meeting 
in the middle of the river, these tem- 
pestuous waters rose into a towering- 
column ; on the top stood a mer- 
maid whose magnetic mien and siren 
singing fascinated the Indians and 
the priest who ran to the spot to 
behold this strange sight. When 
she saw so great a concourse assem-, 
bled on the banks of the river, the 
mermaid assumed a still more entic- 
ing tone and continued to chant 
her mystic song with this refrain: — 

"Come to me, come to me, children of the sea, 
Neither bell, boob nor crops shall win ye from your 

"The Indians listened with ever 
increasing delight. At last one of 
them, unable to resist these allure- 
ments, plunged into the water to rise 
no more. Men, women and children 
followed without delay. When all 
had perished, a loud shout of de- 
moniac triumph was heard. The 
river at once became placid as before 

and ever since that time is heard the 
distant music which has excited so 
much wonder and research. The 
other Indian tribes have handed 
down this tradition, that it was 
their musical brethren who were 
still keeping up their revels at the 
bottom of the river in the palace of 
the mermaid. The poor priest, thus 
deprived, by the powers of darkness 
of the children whom he had hoped 
to lead to God, died a short while 
after in an agony of grief." 

"Such," said James, "is the legend 
as I heard it." "Beautiful!" said 
I; "truly, you have given us a treat 
this evening." 

By this time we had reached the 
landing-place from which wo started. 

We were all indeed very tired, for 
it was now past midnight; so we 
parted much pleased with our moon- 
light excursion and the "mysterious 

John F. Glexnon. 

*We are indebted to the Hon. Charles Gavarre's 
erudite History of Louisiana for the details' of the 
following legend. 


5>b^/HERE has always been at 
m\s\ Spring Hill, a sort of amica- 
^8*-J ble rivalry between the First 
and Second Divisions. This 
spirit is never shown more 
than at Yule-tide in the 
building of the traditional Christ- 
mas fires. 

It has become a custom for both 
Divisions to spend the two weeks 
before the feast, in raising a pole 
ninety or a hundred feet high— the 
higher the better— and in construct- 
ing around it wood-works half 
the height of the pole, which are 
filled with pine straw and resin. 
The two structures are to burn 
on Christmas night. For a week 
before the time they stand like 
fortresses, emblems of the mighty 
war waged between the two Divis- 
ions of the College. 

The great day arrives. Evening- 
approaches. The porticos and 
walks are crowded with spectators. 
The College seems converted into 
the aisles and galleries of a vast 
theatre. Two boys are seen ap- 
proaching the piles with lighted 
torches. One moment more, and 
every face is as distinctly seen as in 
the broad daylight. Amid hosts of 
bombs and rockets, the two main 
fires throw their flames aloft, until 
they are seen from Mobile on the 
east and Wheeler ville on the west. 
On they swell, mountingever higher, 
until, as the spectators in their ec- 
static joy, are shouting their hur- 
rahs of delight, the wood-works, 
with a crash, fall to the ground. 
The most important feature of the 
day is then over. Interest subsides. 
Soon the boys retire to rest. This 



picture gives an idea of the Christ- 
mas fires at Spring* Hill. 

Never, perhaps, was more interest 
shown in the building of the fires, 
than at the Christinas of '91 . Out 
in the thickest forests, the boys 
roamed for a week, searching after a 
suitable pine tree to serve them as 
a pole. 

It was commonly understood that 
the First Division boys were to 
have the better pole. They pos- 
sessed more of the muscle required 
to drag a large tree in to the grounds, 
as well as more of the horse-power 
necessary to raise it. This year, 
however, their younger rivals la- 
bored hard to surpass them. 

We shall try to give a brief de- 
scription of the contest between the 
two divisions. 

The Seniors cut down a tree of 
eighty feet, and by means of skilful 
splicing, made it one hundred and 
eighteen feet in length. It was the 
greatest work in the way of fire- 
poles that Spring Hill College, in its 
long history of more than fifty 
years, had ever seen. As the pole 
was raised aloft, a shout of triumph 
arose from the First Division. 

The cry re-echoed from yard to 
yard, through the heart of the Sec- 
ond Division. Then a death-like si- 
lence seized every youngster. They 
were completely disheartened, or 
else some fell purpose was lurking 
in their minds. 

In the class-rooms the next day, 
the larger boys were pointing in de- 
rision at the smaller ones. But no 
word of reply was provoked from 
theiryoung breasts. Whatever their 
purpose was, they were silent and 
immovable to the last boy. 

But not long were they obliged to 
restrain their feelings. Class was let 
out at half-past three, to give the 
Junior Division boys time to raise 
their pole. The larger boys lined 
the fences to watch the process. In- 
terested spectators hung from every 
window. The Juniors were soon at 
the ropes. ''One!— two!— three!" was 
the cry; and every young muscle in 

every young face was visible, as 
they pulled with might and main. 
The pole is beginning to ascend. 
'One! — two! — three!" again, and lo! 
straight as an arrow, far above the 
highest trees, leaving the Seniors' 
"out of sight," towered the Juniors' 
pole, to the height of one hundred 
and twenty-five feet. 

They had won the victory. They 
realized it. The College shook with 
the shouts of joy that went up from 
their jubilant hearts. They had 
restrained themselves only to have 
more satisfaction in that cry of 

The next day in class scenes were 
changed. The larger boys had to 
bear the jibes and jeers of their 
young companions. It was too 
much for them. They resolved to 
remedy their situation. They low- 
ered their pole and put on more 

But the fates were against them. 
All their horse-power was not suffi- 
cient to raise it, until it had fallen 
three times, amid howls of joy from 
the fences and trees and windows of 
their young enemies. One of their 
little foes was so bold as to run up 
to the scene of action with a Kodak. 
He barely escaped with his life. 
When they finally succeeded in rais- 
ing the pole, it stood with a curve 
at the top, quite inglorious. 

The victory, so far, rested with the 
Junior Division. 

The building of the wood-work 
was next in the order of exercises. 
This was slow, and went on with less 

From an artistic point of view, 
the pile of the smaller boys was bet- 
ter. But the Seniors showed more 
foresight in building a pile that did 
not appeal to the eye, but was solid 
in the foundations. 

On Christmas eve, both yards 
rested on their laurels. With eager 
anticipation they awaited the feast 
of the morrow. 

Heavenly strains of music awoke 
the boys on Christinas morning. 
The College Senior Band was heard 



in the distance, coming nearer and 
nearer, up the stairs, along the gal- 
leries, until it reached the dormito- 
ries, and there, with a spirit that 
filled every heart with joy, sounded 
the air, "Christus natus hodie" 
From that hour the boys' merri- 
ment began and lasted through the 
entire day. 

Six in the evening was the time 
for the fire-works. Long before twi- 
light visitors from all parts had 
crowded the walks and verandas of 
the College. Time was at last 
called. Two privileged boys ap- 
proached the fires. They applied 
fire-brands to each simultaneously. 
The resin and pine straw with 
which the wood-work was filled 
sent the blaze in a moment to the 

We need not repeat the descrip- 
tion of the fires. The boys waited, 
with nervous excitement, to see 
whose structure would be the first 
to fall. Each division hoped for the 
shout of victory. 

It was about twenty minutes af- 
ter seven, when a terrible crash was 
heard, and the wood — but not the 
pole — of the smaller boys fell to the 
ground. A loud cheer was heard 
from the opposite yard. But as the 
two poles still stood, the Seniors 
did not consider it safe to give full 

vent to their joy. They waited long 
and anxiously for one of the poles 
to fall. Nine o'clock came; but the 
poles were still erect. It was then 
time for the boys to retire. 

During the night, however, the 
all-important event took place. 
About half past eleven, when all 
was still and only a few expectant 
ears were yet awake — hark! a crash! 
It was from the big vard. Pole 

A whisper ran through the three 
Junior dormitories. Oh, could the 
youngsters have cheered, even at 
that midnight hour, how willingly 
would they have done so! An audi- 
ble smile was all that was allowed 

The next morning, joy beamed on 
the faces of the younger boys, and 
consternation marked the sterner 
looks of the Seniors. 

The Juniors were only anxious for 
morning prayer to be over, that 
they might give the three cheers. 

Towards the end of prayers, how- 
ever, their own pole fell. They were 
then deprived of their satisfaction. 

Such was the great contest of '91, 
over the Christmas fires. Neither 
side could claim a complete victory, 
though the Juniors at least had the 

Francis J. Killeen. 



fT is impossible to conceive the 
excitement of the students at 
Spring Hill College, when it was 
?5§ announced, a few days previ- 
5? ous to Mardi Gras, that "The 
to Phunny Phorty Phellows" 
would this year supply the place of 
"The Independent Order of the 
Moon," in the carnival parade. 

For months before this happy 
event, a great number of artists and 
skilled workers were kept constantly 
busy in making the extensive prep- 
arations necessary for the great 

Everything, however, was kept so 
well concealed from the inquisitive 
that the initiated alone knew of the 
grand surprise in store for those 
who would be fortunate enough to 
witness the imposing spectacle. 

A bright sunny Shrove Tide wel- 
comed the re-appearance of "The 
Phunny Phorty Phellows." All 
who remembered the splendor of 
their former pageants, hailed their 
return with joy. 

Promptly at three o'clock, the 
procession entered the front avenue 
and advanced to the portico of the 



College. The dexterous horseman- 
ship of Sir William, Knight of Goula, 
in his Quixotic attire, won universal 
admiration. Close behind, followed 
different floats, bearing the very in- 
genious and comic descriptions of 
the "Phunny Krewe." 

The display was devoted to the 
historic and the existing features of 
a student's life at college, that fur- 
nished fit subjects for burlesque rep- 
resentation. Spring Hill College of 
the past— Spring Hill College of the 
present— such was the subject of the 

The first subject— Spring Hill Col- 
lege of the past — was beautifully 
represented. Persons whose names 
and faces had long since been for- 
gotten and who, during their College' 
life, had been leading characters, 
were now beheld reacting the scenes 
of former years. 

''Spring Hill as it is," attracted 
the most attention and, of course, 
received the greater share of ap- 
plause. The hobbies of the Seniors 
and the weaknesses and short-com- 
ings of the Juniors, were made glar- 
ingly ridiculous. Many an unsus- 
pecting culprit skulked quietly away 
when he beheld himself and his fail- 
ings so ludicrously exhibited. 

Without doubt, "The Phunny 
Phorty Phel lows' 1 added greatly to 
the mirth of the carnival, and lows: 

though comic in every respect, more 
good was effected than the insti- 
gators, perhaps, imagined. 

Heartily will the students of dear 
old Spring Hill welcome the return 
of Sir William, Knight of Goula, 
and his "Phunny Krewe," to en- 
liven next year's Mardi Gras cele- 

In keeping with a time-honored 
custom, after the procession, the 
students were all invited to partake 
of a sumptuous banquet, which had 
been prepared for them under the 
personal supervision of the Rev. 
Vice President. The places of honor 
were, of course, occupied bv Sir 
William and "The Phunny Phel- 

The banquet over, all repaired to 
the exhibition hall, where "Caswal- 
lon," an historical tragedy, in five 
acts, was to be rendered by the 
members of the Senior Literary So- 
ciety. This was to be their first ap- 
pearance, but so well did they con- 
centrate all their powers in this one 
effort that the unparalleled suc- 
cess with which their efforts were 
crowned, amply compensated for 
all former delinquencies. 

The Cast of Characters, Pro- 
gramme and Argument are as fol- 



Caswallon, Briton Chief T. R. Cassidy 

Eric, Prince of Wales J. L. Armstrong 

Mad or, Bard of Arvon J. L. Grande]] 

Caradoc,! r , , T , jC. P. Mclntvre 

ffoel, { Leaders of Insurgents | D R Cram | oll 


Armyn Fitz-Edward, Son of Caswallon M. Bergeron 

Roger f)e Percival, Governor of Wales E. Fitzgerald 

Sir Hugh De Lacy,) r •„,,,, }J. S. Hanlon 

Sir Cecil Ormsby, / Knights ^ M Mahorner 

Audley, 1 fJantflina (H. J. Majeau 

Harcourt,/ Captains ^ A ^^ 

Headsman F. G. Ziegler 

Officers, Soldiers, Bards'. 


Scene — Near Conway Castle, Mount Snowdon, Wales. 
Time— Fourteenth Century . 

Overture— "Poor Jonathan, 1 ' Millocker College Orchestra 


Scene 1 — At the gate of Conway Castle. 
Scene 2— A wood near Snowdon. 
Waltz— "Congo," College Orchestra 


Scene — A rocky vale. 

Flute Qu^tette-Acade^ »,BI^.,{£ $££ A L ggg 

Tableau I — Insurrection. 
" A breath of submission we breathe not ; 
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not ; 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade." 


Scene— A valley at the foot of Snowdon. 

Cornet Solo— "II Trovatore," Verdi C. Mulherin 

Tableau II— In Chains. 

"Far dearer the grave or the prison, 
Illumed by one patriot name, 
Than the trophies of all who have risen, 
On liberty's ruins to fame." 


Scene— A hall in Conway Castle. 

Trombone Solo — "L'Eclair," Helery J. Mulherin 

act v. 
Scene— A court in Conway Castle. 

Selection— "Remembrance of Naples," Tobani Orchestra 

Tableau III— A Nation's Woe. 

"Weep on, weep on, your hour is past ; 
Your dreams of pride are o'er ; 
The fatal chain is round you east— 
And ye are men no more." 


The Welch, no longer able to bear with patience the tyrannous sway 
of Percival, Lord of Conway, make one more effort to shake off the Saxon 
yoke. They select as their leader, Caswallon, whose patriotism was 
known, and valor tried on many a field of battle. The discovery that 
young Eric, the supposed child of Caswallon, is in reality Llewellyn's heir, 
adds new energy to their enthusiasm. 

Sir Armyn Fitz Edward, a favorite at the English court, becomes 
aware of their projected enterprise. Mindful of his Cambrian birth, he 
seeks out Caswallon to warn him of the rashness of his undertaking. In 
the interview which ensues. Caswallon recognizes in the youth his son, 
long mourned as dead. Despite his father's entreaties, Armyn re- 
mains steadfast in his sworn allegiance to his* English benefactor, 
resolving, however, to serve his native land in every way consistent with 
his fealty. 

Taken in battle, Eric and Caswallon fall into the hands of Percival, 
who condemns Caswallon to death, and spares Eric's life, in order to 
further his ambitious aims. A royal pardon is granted to the prayers of 
Armyn. He hastens to impart the happy tidings to his condemned 
father, and arrives in time to save him. Caswallon. however, descends 
from the scaffold, but only to hearken to the consoling words of young- 
Eric, who had been treacherously stabbed, and to die broken-hearted at 
his side. 



Thos. Cassidy, as "Caswallon," 
succeeded remarkably well, if we 
bear in mind that so extraordinary 
a combination of sternness and gen- 
tleness as this character requires 
can scarcely be found in any one 
person. Now violent as the impetu- 
ous mountain torrent, now gentle 
as the peaceful brook is Caswallon. 

Johnny Armstrong was then in- 
troduced as Eric, Prince of Wales. 
The ease, grace and distinct articu- 
lation of this little boy met with 
considerable approval. 

So familiar has Mr. J as. Crandell 
become in the capacity of priest 
and bard that he might be said to 
have a lawful claim to such roles. 
As Mad or, Bard of Arvon, the gen- 
tleman acquitted himself as no one 
else could have done. His unem- 
barrassed manner of speaking and 
acting was most praiseworthy. 

Mr. Michael Bergeron next ap- 
peared, in the complicated role of 
Armyn Fitz Edward, son of Cas- 
wallon. The earnest endeavor, 
graceful gesticulation, self-compos- 
ure and perfect enunciation of this 
amateur, won the palm for him in 
the estimation of his perhaps too 
critical audience. 

Roger De Percival, Governor of 
Wales, was impersonated by Mr. E. 
T. Fitzgerald, in a manner most 
commendable. The ingenious in- 
terpretation of his part deserves 

special mention. Intelligence mark- 
ed every action, and Mr. Fitz- 
gerald, as President of the Society, 
is entitled to the highest praise for 
his painstaking industry in the 
cause of Caswallon. 

Mr. James Hanlon, President of 
the Junior Literary Society, Mr. 
Mat. Mahorner, and Mr. C. A. Bar- 
ker were efficient supporters of the 
principal characters. 

The Leaders of the Insurgents, 
Knights, Captains, and all the 
minor characters, acquitted them- 
selves well of the trust confided to 

The death scene at the end was 
pronounced by all, the redeeming 
.feature of the play. Messrs. T. 
Cassidy and John Armstrong were 
very pathetic in this most difficult 

The three tableaux, after the sec- 
ond, third and fifth acts, were among 
the most expressive and grand ever 
exhibited at Spring Hill. The 
stage arrangements were magnifi- 
cent and they produced a wonderful 

The music furnished by the Col- 
lege Orchestra, also the Flute Quar- 
tette, the Cornet and Trombone 
Solos were delightful treats, to be 
found onlv in "Old Spring Hill 

C. S. Hebert. 


N Friday, January 22, the 
College Chapel was draped 
in black, and a modest cata- 
falque crowned with the 
priestly vestments, told us 
that one of God's anointed 
ministers had passed away. The 
community assembled in the sanc- 
tuary to recite the Office of the Dead, 
which was followed by a solemn 
Requiem Mass. Tin? deceased, per- 
sonally unknown to us, was Very 
Rev. Father Anthony M. Anderledy, 

late General of the Society of Jesus, 
who died at Fiesole, January 18th, 

The attention of the Catholic 
world and of the Press was then 
turned to Rome and Westminster, 
where the grave had just closed 
over the remains of two great Car- 
dinals, so that mention was scarcely 
made of the humble religious who 
expired in his modest cell, under the 
eyes of God alone. Yet he deserves 
more than a passing notice, both 



on account of his high position and 
of the rare merits which raised him 
to it. American readers will also be 
pleased to know something about 
the first General of his Order who 
ever landed on our shores. 

Fr. Anthony M. Anderledy was 
born June 3, in the hamlet of 
Berisal, Canton Wallis, Switzerland. 
The College of Brigg, io the same 
Canton, having been restored to the 
Jesuits, the future General of the 
Order became one of their pupils, 
and was thus nurtured in their spirit 
from his tender years. The germs 
of vocation gradually developed 
under the fostering care of his mas- 
ters, and the influence of their direc- 
tion and example. When his school 
days came to an end, faithful to the 
voice of God, he applied for admis- 
sion into the Society. On the 5th 
of October, 1838, he entered the 
novitiate at Brigg, where he spent 
three years in laying the foundations 
of his religious life, and reviewing 
his classical studies. He was then 
employed as teacher and prefect in 
the College of Friburg, where the 
saintly Canisius, whose body is kept 
there in great veneration, nerved 
him to emulate the zeal and piety 
of this renowned apostle. 

In 1844 we find him at Rome, 
engaged in the study of theology 
under Passaglia and other eminent 
professors. Failing health obliged 
him to return to Friburg before 
the time of his ordination to 
the priesthood. The Catholics of 
Switzerland were then struggling 
against the Revolution and Pro- 
testantism combined. It was a 
critical moment for all religious 
communities, and, most of all, for 
Jesuit Colleges. Their very exist- 
ence was involved in the issue of 
the struggle. The Revolution tri- 
umphed and the Jesuits were soon 
treading the path of exile. Fr. An- 
derledy's life was even in danger, 
and before he could reach the fron- 
tier, he saw the muskets of the Radi- 
cals pointed at his breast. He es- 
caped uninjured, however, and after 

spending a few weeks in Belgium, he 
sailed for America. Shortly after 
his arrival at St. Louis, he was or- 
dained priest by the Most Reverend 
Archbishop Kenrick. His knowledge 
of several European languages en- 
abled him at once to exercise his 
ministry among German and French 
speaking congregations. St. Louis, 
Green Bay and Milwaukee, became 
in turn the scene of his labors. 
When tranquillity was restored to 
Europe in 1850, he was recalled to 
Belgium. On his return, he first 
repaired to Tronchiennes, where he 
made what is known in the Society 
as the third year of probation. He 
came out from this last trial fully 
equipped for all the labors of his 
calling. After having spent two 
years, 1850-1852, in preaching mis- 
sions throughout Rhine Prussia and 
Westphalia, he was appointed Vice- 
Rector of the College which the 
Order had "just opened at Cologne, 
under the patronage of its Arch- 
bishop, Cardinal Geissel. Here, he 
made his profession, March 16, 
1855. From Cologne, he was trans- 
ferred to the College of Paderborn 
as Rector. In 1859, he became Pro- 
vincial of Germany, which post he 
held for six years. He then retired 
to the house of studies which he had 
founded at Maria-Laach, near Cob- 
lentz. At first, he filled the chair of 
Moral Theology, but in 1867, he 
was appointed Rector. Three years 
later, we find him once more at Rome 
as the assistant of Fr. General for 
the German speaking Provinces of 
the Order. Driven from the Eternal 
City by the Piedmontese in 1870, 
he accompanied Fr.Beckx to Fiesole, 
a picturesque town overlooking the 
city of Florence, where .the head- 
quarters of the Society were fixed. 
New honors and responsibilities 
awaited him there. In 1883, grow- 
ing infirmities, consequent upon old 
age, obliged Fr. Beckx, then 88 
years old, to share with another 
the burden of government; and on 
the 24th of September of the same 
year, Fr. Anderledy was elected 



Vicar-General of the Society, with 
rig-lit of succession, by a General 
Congregation of the Order assem- 
bled in Ro^e. By a Circular letter 
dated Fiesole, January 20, 1884, 
Fr. Beckx resigned the whole care 
of the Society to his Vicar, retaining 
only the name of General. He died, 
March 14, 1887, at the advanced 
age of 93. Fr. Anderledy now as- 
sumed the title of his predecessor, 
and governed the Society 5 years 
longer. Death found him at his 
post, and he obeyed its summons 
with joy, for he was prepared to 
meet it. Assisted by the prayers of 
his religious brethren, he peacefully 

To say that Fr. Anderledy was, 
in every respect, the worthy succes- 
sor of so many eminent and saintly ' 
men who governed the Society 
before him, is in itself a great pane- 
gyric ; and in saying this, we are 
only echoing the words of those 
who knew him best. He was looked 
up to by the members of the Society 
as a liviug model of the high perfec- 
tion which their Institute requires. 
Fr. Anderledy was not only an ex- 
em plary religious, but also a man 
of no ordinary intellectual powers 
and acquirements. He spoke with 

ease most of the European lan- 
guages, such as German, French, 
Italian and English; and in litera- 
ture, as well as in sacred science, he 
was an acknowledged master. As 
a superior, he was both gentle and 
firm, two rare qualities which it is 
difficult to combine. Though severe 
to himself, he was all kindness to 
the least of his subjects. We cannot 
better conclude this brief sketch, 
than by illustrating his impartial 
and fatherly solicitude for all those 
under his charge. One day he was 
about to enter the carriage that 
was to convey him to Florence, when 
the thought occurred to his mind 
that he had not seen that day one 
of the lay brothers who was confined 
to his room on account of sickness. 
Excusing himself to the distin- 
guished guests who accompanied 
him, he returned in haste to the 
house, inquired about the health of 
the brother, and did not leave his 
side until he had cheered him with 
kind words and bidden him an affec- 
tionate farewell. By this and like 
tokens of his entire devoted n ess to 
them, Fr. Anderledy endeared him- 
self to all the members of the Society. 

R. I. P. 



'N no part of the world did the 
zeal and abnegation of the 
French missionaries appear to 
greater advantage than it did 
in this country during the first 
quarter of the present century. 
We find the exiled French priests 
whom the Revolution had driven 
from their country, scattered over 
the vast region lying between the 
Mississippi and the Atlantic coast. 
Whilst some were preaching the 
Gospel to the backwoodsmen of Ohio 
and Illinois, others were laboring 
among their countrymen in the low- 
hinds of Louisiana. These were 

followed by the noble souls who, 
voluntarily abandoning the sun- 
shine of their native land, generously 
sacrificed every comfort, every 
worldly tie to carry the light of the 
true faith into the recesses of the 
American forests. They had to toil 
on amidst untold difficulties, with 
language, manners, customs, eveiw- 
thiug strange to them. But God 
blessed their labors, and the Catholic 
church to-day looks back with pride 
on their noble achievements. 

Michael Portier was one of those 
great pioneer bishops. He will ever 
be remembered as the founder or pro- 



moter and patron of the many chari- 
i table, educational and religious 
institutions which adorn Mobile to- 
day. As a priest his memory will 
ever be revered for his saintly char- 
acter, his charity and self-sacrifice, 
which prompted him to give up all 
for the glory of the sanctuary. As 
a bishop for his wise and far-seeing- 
ad ministration and his noble efforts 
in the cause of education. But by 
none is his memory held in greater 
reverence than by the students of 
Spring Hill College, *' Noble monu- 
ment of its gifted and generous 

Michael Portierwas born in Mont 
Brison in the diocese of Lyons, 
France, September 7th, 1795. He 
had the happiness of possessingtrue 
Catholic parents, who received with 
overwhelming joy the news that 
their son sought no other inheri- 
tance but God and the service of His 
altars. Michael, whilst still very 
young, entered the Seminary of 
Lyons to prepare himself for the 

But God had other designs on the 
young Levite. About that time, 
Bishop Dubourg visited Lyons in 
quest of missionaries for his diocese 
of New Orleans. The generous soul 
of the young seminarian was filled 
with zeal for the salvation of souls ; 
his heart yearned for the day when 
he should be able to labor for souls 
in that far off land. Happy moment 
for Mobile, for it gave her a prelate 
who in the history of the Americas 
has seldom been equalled and never 
surpassed in apostolic zeal and 

Nor did the tears and entreaties 
of his mother, whom hefondly loved, 
shake him from his fixed resolve. 
He sailed from Bordeaux with 
Bishop Dubourg, and after a voy- 
age of sixty-five days, landed at 
Annapolis, Marvlancl^ September 4, 

After a short sojourn with Charles 
Carroll, of Carrollton, Mr. Portier 
proceeded to Baltimore. Here, at 
the seminary of St. Mary's, he spent 

some time in mastering the English 
language and received Deacon's 

The year 1818 witnesses the ordin- 
ation of Mr. Portier, at St. Louis. 
He at once gave himself up, heart 
and soul, to thedutiesof his calling. 
We find him attending the victims 
of the yellow fever during the first 
year of his priesthood, with such 
devotion, that he himself was soon 
attacked by that dread malady. 

His vigorous constitution with- 
stood all the ravages of disease, and 
on his complete recovery, he was 
assigned to New Orleans. It was 
here that he had an opportunity for 
the first time of showing his great 
abilities in the cause of education. 
He established a collegiate school 
in New Orleans, which was conducted 
with great success and became a 
source of pride to its founder. 

Bishop Dubourg recognized his 
faithful services by making hi in 
Vicar General of the diocese. 

Meanwhile favorable reports had 
been sent to Rome, so that when 
the Holy See erected the provinces 
of Alabama, Florida and Arkansas 
into a Vicarate Apostolic, Fr. Por- 
tier, in spite of his vigorous remon- 
strances, was appointed its first 

He was consecrated on November 
5, 1826, at St. Louis, by Bishop 
Rosate. By his consecration, Bishop 
Portier was made Bishop of Oleno 
in partibus and Vicar- Apostolic of 

The condition of the Vicarate- 
Apostolic on the accession of Dr. 
Portier was really deplorable. In 
all that extent of territory there 
was not a single priest, and the 
bishop thus found himself alone 
without means or assistance in 
a territory -twice the size of his 
native France. Nothing daunted, he 
at once set to work at his allotted 
task. He entered Mobile, and glad- 
dened the hearts of the inhabitants 
with the promise of a pastor. After 
his mission in Mobile, he went 
through the diocese on an episcopal 



tour. Considerable time was spent 
in Pensacola, Tallahassee and St. 
Augustine. At the last named place, 
he was stricken down by fever, which 
detained him there much longer 
than usual. 

Greatly grieved at the neglected 
state of religion and the great want 
of priests throughout the Vicarate 
Apostolic, Bishop Portier deter- 
mined to visit Europe in quest of 
missionaries, and also to procure 
financial assistance for his diocese. 

Leaving the Vicarate Apostolic 
to the charge of Bishop England 
and a missionary priest, he em- 
barked for Europe in the Summer of 

His visit bore good fruit, for be- 
sides eight assistants for his diocese, 
he obtained several princely dona- 
tions to build schools and churches 
in his American diocese. 

During his absence, however, Rome 
had erected the diocese of Mobile, of 
which Bishop Portier was appointed 
incumbent, so that on his arrival 
at Mobile he was at once installed its 
first Bishop. His coming was thus 
described by one of the inhabitants : 
"A pastor, a successor of the apos- 
tles had been given them: they could 
not forbear to anticipate the happy 
changes which would now take place. 
The idea filled them with joy; his 
presence diffused happiness on them; 
his amiable disposition enlivened by 
piety has linked him close to our 
hearts; his young clergy unite in 
his efforts and seem to promise a 
long continuance of days devoted 
to the purest worship." When the 
bishop arrived at Mobile, a small 
log cabin 20x30, became his cathe- 
dral, which Bishop Portier subse- 
quently enlarged. In 1836 he built 
a temporary brick church on the 
opposite side of Conti street, which 
now forms a part of the Catholic 
Asylum. But the first enterprise of 
this truly great man was the found- 
ing of Spring Hill College, which he 
built on an admirable site overlook- 
ingthe bay of Mobile. Reappointed 
Fr. Loras, president, and equipped 

the college with a full corps of 
European professors. The college 
was for a time conducted by the 
Eudists and afterwards by the 
Fathers of Mercy. Finally, in 1846, 
he entrusted it to the Society of 
Jesus, in whose hands it has made 
an enviable record for itself thro ugh- 
out the length and breadth of 

Having now gratified the wish of 
his heart by seeing his college in suc- 
cessful operation, he set out on a 
tour of his diocese. It was a journey 
in truly apostolic style, which was 
not accomplished without many 
trials and much suffering through 
the almost untracked forests of Ala- 
bama and Florida. 

Returning to Mobile, the bishop, 
ever the friend of education, opened 
an academy for young ladies, con- 
ducted by the Visitation nuns from 
Georgetown. His next work was 
the erection of a residence for him- 
self and clergy. It was a modest 
frame building, and is still occupied 
by the bishops of Mobile. 

The crowning work, however, of 
Bishop Portiers career, was the 
erection of the cathedral of the Im- 
maculate Conception. The corner 
stone of this great enterprise, which 
had occupied his mind for some 
time, was laid with great solemnity 
in 1835. Archbishop Purcell deliv- 
ered an eloquent oration on the 
occasion. After various interrup- 
tions it was finally completed, and 
on December 8, 1850, was solemnly 

Shortly after, the cholera plague 
devastating his diocese, left many 
orphans. These at once became 
objects of his paternal care, and he 
obtained communities of the Sisters 
of Charity and the Brothers of 
Christian Instruction to take care 
of the girls and boys respectively. 

He established schools in various 
parts of his diocese, but in no section 
did they meet with the success which 
attended his efforts in Mobile. 

Ever intent upon supplying his 
diocese with churches, he erected in 




Tuscaloosa a beautiful church, and 
supplied it with a permanent pastor. 

He sailed for Europe in 1849, leav- 
ing- a diocese as flourishing then as it 
was destitute at his installation. 

Bishop Portier spent the years 
succeeding his return in travelling 
through the States. He sat in the 
first National Council at Baltimore, 
of which he was senior member. 

Returning to Mobile, he again 
took up the work of charity, by 
building the Providence Infirmary, 
a retreat for the sick and infirm. 

Here he betook himself, when at- 
tacked by the fatal disease of dropsy . 
After a long and painful illness, 
he calmly expired on the 14th of 
May, 1859. 

His remains were interred beneath 
the altar of his beloved cathedral, 
amidst the universal grief and 
mourning of Catholics and Protest- 

Bishop Portier was an ideal mis- 
sionary Bishop. Hebecameall unto 
all. His simple, winning manner 
was the outcome of a noble soul, 
framed after the imitation of his 
Divine Master. His character is 
written in labors throughout his 
vast diocese, and Mobile will ever 
revere the memory of one who for 
so many years was so closely iden- 
tified with her history. 

E. T. Fitzgerald. 


a distance of about two 
miles from Sunset Station, 
on the Southern Pacific 
Railway, and peeping out 
from a cluster of trees, is to 
be seen, shining in the sun- 
light, the gilded cross of a lofty 
steeple. It is towards this steeple 
that we now wend our way. 

As we go along, we leave behind 
us ripe fields of corn and cotton, 
and snow-white 
to be 


whose golden ears 

bursting bolls are 

harvested by the merry old darkies. 

In passing, we are greeted by 
many a well contented farmer, 
bringing his produce from the coun- 
try to be exchanged for other 
goods or to be shipped to distant 

Here and there a neat cottage or 
a rustic farmhouse appears in the 
distance; everything, in fact, one 
can see in this luxuriant land be- 
tokens peace and contentment. 
The clang of the axe, the ring of 
the hammer, the monotonous hum 
of the whirling saw, commingling 
their discordant sounds with the 
indistinct "wail of the forest," tell 
us that we are approaching a town. 
A turn of the road and we are in 
the village of Grand Coteau. 

The doors of the shops are open; 
the busy customers pass in and out; 
wagons are constantly going from 
place to place, heavily laden with 
provisions; cattle roam about the 
solitary street, plucking the green 
grass without the slightest molesta- 
tion. This is a Southern village. 

Passing out through the only 
street, a beautiful scene bursts upon 
our view; a clump of old oaks 
stand out before us, in all their ma- 
jestic grandeur, as they doubtless 
stood long before the Genoese mar- 
iner pressed the soil of our native 
land; while far above their unpre- 
tending branches are the heads of 
lofty pines, with their nodding tops 
swaying to and fro in the sunshine. 

So enraptured were we with this 
enchanting scene that, before con- 
scious of it, we were at the door of 
the church and under the very 
steeple which before was the object 
of our attention. Yes, there before 
us is the church, with its lofty spire 
towering to the skies and shading 
us from the rays of a tropical sun. 
Over the slate roof there is visible 
another tower, which supports an 
enormous bell, whose deep hollow 
notes send a thrill through the vil- 
lage, far out into the forest and 



over tlie distant bayou, calling the 
faithful to their religious duties, or 
tolling the solemn knell of some 
soul whose life journey is ended for- 

On entering this modest temple of 
God, we are struck by the harmony 
and beauty of the structure. The 
white marble altar in the centre is 
a marvel of beauty. Above the 
tabernacle is a splendid life-size 
painting of the Sacred Heart of 
Jesus. On the right is a magnifi- 
cent stained glass window represent- 
ing St. Ignatius of Loyola, whilst 
on the opposite side, corresponding 
to this, is seen St. Francis Xavier, 
the Apostle of the Indies. All 
around over the arches, are fres- 
coed panels representing the mys- 
teries of the Holy Rosary. The 
organ, the statues, everything is in 
perfect harmony; nothing, indeed, 
was neglected to make the place a 
temple befitting the worship of the 
Most High. 

When we had seen the church, we 
went through the College grounds 
to the main building. This is of 
Grecian architecture; the porticos 
are inclosed by massive pillars, and 
on the frieze of the entablature is 
inscribed, in letters of gold, "DEO 

This building contains, or at 
least, did contain, study halls, class 
rooms and dormitories. At a little 
distance there is another large edi- 
fice, known to former students as 
"the new building." In this are 
the College library, community 
recreation rooms, professors' rooms 
and chapel, where the socialists were 
wont to meet every week. 

The playgrounds are well shaded 
by the many oaks that grow 
around. A nicely kept avenue leads 
to the bayou and to the stately 
Convent of the Sacred Heart. It is 
impossible to speak of the oaks 
around Grand Coteau without re- 
calling the name of Father Abba- 
die, who, every year, for more than 
forty years, had planted trees at 
the College. 

Dear old Father Abbadie! How 
he became identified with the place! 
How many, in every walk of life- 
great men to-day— have rambled, 
when boys, through the woods of 
dear old St. Charles, and spent 
happy days of study within its hal- 
lowed walls! These, indeed, recall 
with pleasure, the memory of Father 

Many generations of boys came 
and went, and still the white haired 
Father, in his well-worn habit, 
seemed always the same. He was 
ever busy, planting and pruning 
his trees. The day came at last 
when the saintly old man was 
called to his reward, and Father 
Abbadie now rests in the little "cem- 
etery, surrounded by many whom 
he had baptized and whom he had 
often consoled in their troubles. 

But now that College which has 
sent numbers of brilliant students 
into the world, which has developed 
the minds of thousands and pre- 
pared them for the great battle of 
life, by arming them with the dou- 
ble-edged weapon of science and 
sanctity— that old and honored 
place which so well deserved the 
name of College, has closed its 
doors. It has been converted into 
a scholasticate of the Society of 
Jesus, where the younger members 
of the Order spend their time in 
study, preparing to lead the van- 
guard in the war against impiety 
and infidelity. The loss of St. 
Charles is greatly felt by many of 
the boys who dwelt within its walls. 
Our sorrow at its closing is some- 
what assuaged by the new compan- 
ions we have met here at Spring 
Hill College. Besides, many of our 
teachers have come with us, so that 
we are not as lonely as some of us 
had anticipated. We received noth- 
ing but kindness from the old 
Spring Hillians, who did their best, 
by games and amusements of all 
kinds, to make us happy and render 
our new home an agreeable one. 

Our recollections of Grand Coteau 


will always remain pleasing souve- boys who spent so many pleasant 

nirs of happy days. Lasting' and hours within the hallowed walls of 

dear are the remembrances which dear old St. Charles, 
find deep root in the hearts of the David Gallagher. 


LINE 860-886. 

He saw a beauteous youth in dazzling arms, 

Whose brow was gloomy, and whose eyes were fixed 

On earth. Him seeing, thus y^neas spoke : 

" O father! who is he that follows thus 

This hero's footsteps? Is he then his son? 

Doth he descend from that illustrious race? 

What din of comrades round this youth! but alas! 

Dark night in shrouds yclad flits round his head." 

Anchises answered, midst a flood of tears: 

" O son ! seek not to know the mighty grief 

Of thy posterity : the fates on earth 

Will only lend him, and allow no more. 

The gods have trembled, lest by such rare gifts 

The Roman race might grow too powerful. 

What sobs of heroes shall the Martian field 

Emit throughout the city ! Thou shalt view, 

Tiber, his obsequies, and gently lave 

His new-built sepulchre. From Trojan blood 

No youth shall e'er to Latin ancestors 

Promise such hopes: ne'er shall the Roman race 

Boast of another like descendant. 

Alas! for filial love, and pristine truth! 

His right hand e'er invincible in war! 

No warrior dare brave him in equal fight. 

Whether on foot he fall upon the foe, 

Or charge an army on his foaming steed. 

Alas! ill-fated youth! if thou escape 

The cruel fates, thou shalt Marcellus be. 

Scatter in copious handfuls lilies white, 

And blushing roses on thy offspring's tomb 

As off'rings to his soul : I shall perform 

The ceremony unavailable, 






A wreath of pearls, the sweat of pain, she wore, 

As on the rack her quivering limbs were laid. 

The Prefect seemed a demon throned, — the Maid 

A tortured angel. Her the guards then bore 

To where the headsman stood. In legal lore 

Where skilled Theophilus, who passing by 

Thus scorned the saint : "Your spouse will I adore 

If heavenly flowers, (once vaunted) ere you die 

You offer me." The maiden silent prayed : 

Flora-like she shook her robe : there dropped a shower 

Of fair and vermeil buds, which never fade — 

Than musk-rose sweeter — reared in heaven's bower. 

* * * * O'er golden locks and snow-white neck the blade 

Doth sweep : she droops — the fairest, blood-stained flower. 



"■Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 

>0 truer exemplification of 
these words of Milton could be 
found than in the case of Al- 
fred Tennyson; for since By- 
ron found death in the 'clime 
of the unforgotten brave,' 
there is no poet who has succeeded 
so eminently in impressing his indi- 
viduality upon the minds of the 
English-speaking people, as the pres- 
ent poet— Laureate of England . 
His popularity is such at the present 
time, that, to call the perfection of 
1 1 i s ] >oetry into question would savor 
almost of blasphemy, and an emi- 
nent American critic has gone so fai- 
ns to say, that he is the only poet 
read by the people of this country. 
If this be true, a short sketch of 
such a man's life, and a brief notice 
of his works cannot fail to be of in- 

Alfred Tennyson was born at 
Somersby, a hamlet of Lincoln- 
shire, on the 5th of August, 1809. 
The youngest of three brothers, he 

received the elements of his educa- 
tion from his father. When suffi- 
ciently mature for college life, lie was 
sent, first to the Grammar School 
of Louth, thence to Cambridge, 
where he studied very hard , but left 
without taking any degree. From 
the time of his leaving college up to 
the present, his life has been char- 
acterized by retirement, study and 
work, a fact which has contributed 
in no small degree to his present 
fame in the literary world. 

His first excursions into the do- 
main of song were made while yet a 
boy at Louth Grammar School, 
when, with his brother Charles, he 
composed a book of poems which 
were published in 1828. If we are 
to judge by the fate of this produc- 
tion which never received the honor 
of a second edition, these poems 
gave no promise of that high de- 
gree of excellence to which their 
author was to attain. Shortly 
after this ill-fated volume, "A Lov- 




er's Tale" appeared and in the same 
year we find young Tennyson car- 
rying off the chancellor's medal for 
a poem written on Timbnctoo. 

After the appearance of his first 
poems, it was his fate to experience 
the disdain of the literary world. 
For fourteen years his efforts re- 
ceived more derision than criticism 
from the hands of the literati of 
England. Although the poems of 
this period of his life had undoubted 
merit, such a reception for them was 
not to be marvelled at. It was not 
surprising- that a generation ac- 
customed to luxuriate on the pal- 
pable and compact intellectual 
poems of Byron, Shelley and Words- 
worth, should turn away in disgust 
from what it deemed the filigree 
work of a girlish muse. It was only 
in 1842 when his "Poems by Alfred 
Tennyson" appeared, in which were 
to be found, combined in due pro- 
portion, thought, passion and im- 
agination, all expressed in full, rich 
and enchanting forms of verse, that 
Tennyson was allowed, unmolested, 
to take his place in the front ranks 
of poets. 

In 1847 the "Princess" was given 
to the world. The fastidious care 
with which every image of this 
poem was wrought, the masterly 
arrangement of every word calcu- 
lated to produce harmony, the skill 
displayed in the choice of epithet 
reflected with a view to point fresh- 
ness and picturesque effect, the loca- 
tion of every idea within the pre- 
cincts of close and clear expression; 
all combined to raise to the side of 
the poet every true lover of poetry, 
and to silence for all time the carp- 
ings of unjust, jealous or stupid 

In 1850, what may be termed the 
great monumental poem of the 
Laureate, appeared. "In Memori- 
am" purports to be an elegy on 
the death of his young poet friend, 
Arthur Hallam, but it is, in 
reality, the poetic reflections of a 
philosophical mind on the gravest 

and deepest questions of life and 
death, human affection and mortal 

In that long monody, the poet 
pours forth in exquisite verse page 
after page of passionate specula- 
tion, love and fear, and hope, and 
doubt and belief. Now an ethical 
apostle preaching canons of equity, 
anon a sentimental theosophist lost 
in the mazes of mysticism. 

With all its faults, however, it 
stands a truly noble and pro- 
foundly beautiful poem, and will 
long remain as a monument to his 
• genius, because of the magnificence 
of style and the splendid flashes of 
pathetic illumination with which it 
is adorned and vivified. 

In the same year that "In Me- 
moriam" appeared, the gentle 
Wordsworth peacefully breathed 
forth his poetic soul and the Lau- 
reate's crown was laid on the brow of 

The new Laureate proved a 
worthy successor to the Bard of 
Grasmere; for since then his indus- 
try has given to the English lan- 
guage many exquisite poems. 

In 1855 "The Idylls of the King" 
appeared; the result of twenty-five 
years of the poet's life. It is in these 
poems that w 7 e must look for the 
best product of the man. 

After reading these lines, a feeling 
of sadness and disappointment 
takes possession of the Christian 
reader. It is sad to see so much 
sweet music wasted on themes which 
are at best paltry, petty and al- 
most base. It is disappointing to 
see a mind, whose surroundings 
should argue moral elevation, con- 
stantly pre-occupied with specula- 
tions so far removed from a chaste 
ideal, and so nearly allied to con- 

The ability to shape a beauty out 
of a deformity or to carve a defect 
into a perfection may be a sign of 
genius, but the inseparable condi- 
tion of such an occupation is a ne- 
cessary contact with moral turpi- 



tilde. An habitual residence in a 
polluted atmosphere, must neces- 
sarily have a deleterious effect on 
the noblest heart. This series of 
poems, however, established his 
fame as a lyric poet. 

From this time Tennyson began 
to ambition the honors attached 
to the successful dramatic poet. 
In this line of composition failure 
has dogged his steps, and like a 
prudent man, that he undoubtedly 
is, he saw his mistake, and left a 
field where he could not hope to 
gather fresh laurels. The evening 
of his life has been given to the 
writing of ballads, ami success has 
rewarded his efforts in this line of 

It must not be imagined that 
Tennyson acquired the fame which 
he now enjoys without long and 
patient labor. The long intervals 
which elapsed between the publica- 
tion of his principal works, clearly 
prove that every line that emanated 
from him was subjected to the se- 
verest tests before being sent to the 
press. Refined taste, exquisite 
workmanship, pure and elevated 
diction, characterize every line he 
has written, and not the least trib- 
ute to the popularity of his verses 
is the fact that hundreds of his lines 
have become fixed in the minds of 
the multitude. 

If Tennyson failed as a dramatic 
poet it was because he could not 
endow the characters of his drama 
with those strong feelings of hope, 
of agony, of despair, of those di- 
verse passions which find a home 
in the heart of man, and which it is 
the province of the dramatist to 
quicken into life and action. 

"Queen Mary" and "Harold" will 
long remain monuments of mis- 
placed energy and ill-directed genius. 
The cause of his failure in this line 
might betracedto the ignoble fount 
from which he drew his inspira- 
tions, namely, from his hatred of 
the Pope and the Catholic Church, 
lor through all his life he has dis- 
played flic greatest animosity to 

Catholic instincts and institutions. 

Turning from the consideration 
of Tennyson as a dramatic poet, in 
which capacity he has proved a 
signal failure, let us consider him as 
an artist; for it is in this character 
that Tennyson's fame will endure, 
if it endures at all. 

The poet as an artist perforins 
one of the highest functions of 
which man is capable. "His pen 
tracks the eagle in the sky, the hues 
of the morning sun, the cadence of 
the rippling stream. He chains the 
fleeting, fixes the evanescent, stays 
the sinking sun on the hues of 
his western couch, and even calls 
from the tomb the cherished form 
of the buried dead." In all these 
different tasks, Tennyson has 
proved himself the rival of Scott 
and Wordsworth and the superior 
of every other living poet. 

So perfect, indeed, are his pen 
pictures that it is asserted that the 
most painstaking painter could 
perfectly rely on his descriptions for 
the reproduction on canvas of any- 
thing which he has depicted. 

As a moralist and a teacher in 
verse, our poet aims high. He al- 
ways seems to wish to point a moral, 
but his success does not always cor- 
respond to his intentions. 

If heendeavors to ennoble human 
sorrow by weeping in choicest metre 
over a cherished grave, he soon be- 
comes lost in the midst of specula- 
tion. Still, it is not to be denied 
that many a heart has been soothed 
by the balm of his sentiments, and 
lulled to peace by the harmony of 
his song. 

Tennyson has been aptly styled 
"the poet of the happy household," 
the one to whom sorrow must be- 
take itself for consolation. This 
may be an exaggerated opinion, but 
still it is an indication of his wide- 
spread popularity. 

It is the lot of but few poets to 
command a universal appreciation, 
but this good fortune Tennyson has 
achieved. His works are more 
eagerly listened to than any mod- 



ern writer. He is the friend of the 
literary man, the delight of the 
student, and the admired of all 
who know the value of poetry. 

The style of Tennyson is enter- 
taining and fluent, and he has fur- 
nished a model in his writings for 
the poets of the last generations. 
But he is to be held guiltless of set- 
ting the fashion for that decorative 
school of poetry which exists to- 
day. If he composed new verses 
and attempted new rhythms, suc- 
cess was his reward. But others, in 
trying to imitate him, have fallen 
into excesses which the mediocrity 
of their genius could not see, and 
consequently failed to avoid. Ten- 
nyson is preserving to the end the 
graceful tone of his song, and it is 
the prayer of his admirers that he 
may long be spared to enrich our 
language with his masterpieces of 

One thing is certain of Terni3 7 son, 
that whenever the roll-call of the 
army of true bards is called to mus- 
ter, in the eyes of posterity, the 
suffrage of future ages will willingly 
accord him a place of honor, for, 

Perhaps, compelled with the great old masters, 
His l'ange of landscape may not he much; 

But who, out of all their starry number, 
Can heat our Alfred in truth of touch? 

We take advantage of the present 
favorable occasion to reproduce 
Tennyson's latest poem, "The 
Tribute to the Duke of Clarence:" 

The bridal garland falls upon the bier. 
The shadow of a crown that o'er him hung 
lias vanished in the shadow cast by death; 
So princely, tender, truthful, reverent, pure. 
Mourn! That a world-wide empire mourns with 

That all the thrones are clouded by your loss were 

slender solace; 
Yet be comforted ; 

For if this earth be ruled by Perfect Love, 
Then, after his brief range of blameless days, 
The toll of funeral in an angel ear 
Sounds happier than the merriest marriage bell. 
The lace of Death is toward the Son of Life; 
His shadow darkens earth; this truer name 
Is "'Onward." No discordance in the roll 
And march of that eternal harmony 
Whereunto the worlds beat time, tho' faintly 

heard ! 
Until the great hereafter. Mourn in hope. 

"Those who best know Tenny- 
son," says Public Opinion, "and 
his reverence for truth and loyalty 
to high ideals of life, will be slow to 
charge, as many newspaper para- 
graphers have done, that these lines 
are simply to be regarded as the 
servile flattery of a pensioned poet, 
the senile complaisance and sympa- 
thy of one who, in his younger days, 
was a poet. But we submit the 
lines themselves, to all competent 
judges of poetry, as evidence that, 
as poetry, and without raising the 
question of fact as to the character 
of the Duke of Clarence, the lines 
are not unworthy of the acknowl- 
edged Laureate of the English- 
speaking race." 

Clarence S. Hebert. 



Friend of my boyhood years, the first and best! 

By me, no more through life, to be forgot, 
Fain would I join thee in thy far off rest 

Beyond the thoughtless world that prized thee not! 
But, I must wait, alas! through all the weary years, 
While thought of thee will come, and blind me with hot tears. 

Ah! little did I think when last I bade farewell 
To thee, my cherished friend, who loved me so, 

That ere a month should pass away, the fatal knell 
Would knoll thy death, and fill my soul with woe — 

But God knew best for thee — His holy will be done! 

What, though the fight was short, was not the battle won? 

Oh yes! and bravely won, for thou didst spurn 

The joys of earth, to live but for thy God ; 
With all-consuming love thy heart did burn, 

And urge thee on, to walk the ways He trod — 
And bravely didst thou bid the world adieu, 
To join His ranks, and toil with His own chosen few. 

What though we deemed but brief, thy toil and strife, 
When Christ, the vineyard's Master, good and wise, 

Accounted worthy of eternal life 

The cheerful gift of thy youth's sacrifice ; 

Content with thy good will, He called thy soul away — 
He ever takes the good, too good, on earth, to stay. 

Ah ! think of me, my friend, and when I too, 

Life's rugged road passed o'er, shall near the goal ; 

When restless pain grows dull, and moments few 
Pass heavily, and sinks my trembling soul : 

Before the Great White Throne plead then for me 

Who from an anguished heart have prayed to-day for thee. 

L. Lanod. 







d/fipWO powerful armies occupied 
the plains of Chalons, once 
picturesque, now deprived of 
their verdure, owing to the 
incursions of the two hostile 
parties in quest of forage; 
what the scythe had spared the 
torch had not failed to sear, even 
to the enemy's lines. The Huns 
had pitched their tents over many 
acres of land and their encamp- 
ment, composed chiefly of Hunnish 
hordes and several barbarian na- 
tions, as auxiliaries, all under the 
leadership of one man, Attila, 
seemed as if numerous villages had 
been centred in the same spot. 
Here and there, browsing at ran- 
dom within the intrenchments, were 
unsaddled horses of Tartar breed, 
small but strong, and patient of 
fatigue. In some desolate quarters 
were to be found disorderly women 
and knots of sordid children, for 
the most part captives of Attila's 
destructive march from Hungary 
to Gaul. Further on could be 
caught the sounds of drunken mer- 
riment, which never came to a close 
without oaths and drawn knives. 
Along the works and around the 
general's pavilion were grouped 
well-armed soldiers, always on 
horseback and ready for action at 
a moment's notice. These were the 
Huns; heavy men, short of stature, 
ungainly in their whole carriage, 
with tanned and flattened faces. 
Both legs and thighs were encased 
in leathern greaves, and broad iron 
plates covered breast and head. 
The bleeding heads of their foes 
dangling by the locks from their sad- 
dle-bows, bobbed up and down with 
the motion of their horses, whilst 
booty was slungbehind their backs. 
Such were the nomad warriors who 
constituted the army of Attila the 
Scourge of God. 

Directly facing the Huns was the 
camp of the allies— Franks, Visi- 

goths, and Romans, the latter of 
whom, the voice of Leo the Great 
had assembled for the defence of the 
Church and State, all of whom — 
otherwise hostile — were united for 
self-preservation against a common 
foe, far surpassing their respective 
troops. The Roman forces, under 
the command of Aetius, enjoyed 
that peace and tranquillity which 
religion can give on the eve of battle, 
strangely contrasting with the 
orgies of the Hunnish camp. 

On the crest of a hillock was sta- 
tioned a guard of veteran soldiers, 
one thousand strong, in order to 
hold that advantageous position, 
wrested from the hands of the bar- 

Within a tent sat two young men. 
The elder clad in armor usually 
worn by Roman generals, looked 
pensive; gentleness was stamped on 
his countenance. The other was a 
a youth of fair and comely appear- 
ance, who might have somewhat 
passed his nineteenth year. Both 
were silent until the younger thus 
addressed his companion: 

"Noble Sebastian, what causes 
this melancholy mood of yours this 
evening? Have we not all received 
to-day the Papal benediction and 
the last consolation of the Church 
to enable us to die bravely and 
piously? Is it the fear of death 
which has brought on this sadness? 
Pray let me know all, that I may 
both share and alleviate your 

"When in the East, Publius," 
replied Sebastian, "I faced the Par- 
thian darts, and shall I now trem- 
ble to meet death? It is not that, 
but my brother seeks my life." 

"Your brother!" broke in Publius. 

"I shall briefly give you an ac- 
count of my life," continued Sebas- 
tian; "that you may see and under- 
stand how well-founded is my grief: 
You are aware of the feud existing 



between Count Boniface and Aetius, 
which ended only after the latter 
had been worsted in battle. Count 
Boniface slew Symphronia, daugh- 
ter of Boniface, the wife of Count 
Sebastian who, immediately on the 
death of his father-in-law, received 
his title, and additional honors 
from the hands of the Empress. 
But Aeti us appeared before the walls 
of Rome with an army of barbari- 
ans, and thwarted Placidea's concil- 
iatory measures. Sebastian , stripp- 
ed of his dignities; was sent into 
exile. Shortly after, Symphronia 
and her son, at the time onl t y eight 
years old, were banished from Rome. 
My brother, Maximus, was detained 
by Aetius, as he alleged, to serve as 
a hostage, lest my father should 
raise some foreign nation to avenge 
his cause. Years glided by, and the 
boy Maximus, now a youth of 
eighteen, had won Aetius 1 favor. 
He had served in that general's 
camp and accompanied him on dis- 
tant expeditions. In that disas- 
trous overthrow which Litorius 
experienced from the Goths of Tou- 
louse, Maximus, then serving as an 
officer, saved, by his gallant con- 
duct, a remnant of the army. As 
a recompense, he was promoted to 
the rank of general on the frontiers 
of Panonia. There he delivered to 
Attil a the ring and disgraceful pro- 
I )osa,ls of Honoria . Passing through 
Constantinople during the famous 
earthquake, he found my mother 
and myself then living in the great- 
est distress. It was there, in con- 
cert with her, that he formed his 
plans of revenge against Aetius and 
the Empire. Both blamed me for 
not acquiescing in their hatred. He 
returned to Rome, incognito, and 
there eloped with the Emperor's 
sisl er. Soon after, abandoning her, 
he disgraced the imperial name. In 
the mean time, concealed amongst 
veteran soldiers who had fought 
under Boniface, he made known his 
intention of leading them over to 
Attila's army, which was marching 
toward the Western Empire, in or- 

der that they might wipe out their 
former disgrace. Their answer was 
that, although they were not dis- 
posed to fight under Aetius' banner, 
they were unwilling to war against 
their faith and country. Maximus 
secretly departed from Rome, and 
turned his steps toward the Hun- 
nish camp with a few followers, 
composed of brigands and pagans, 
all inimical to the Empire. In the 
mean time, my mother died. My 
father, who had become the coun- 
sellor of a Vandal king in northern 
Africa, was martyred for his faith. 
Anxious to visit the seat of Christ- 
endom, I sailed for Rome at a time 
when the city was in commotion on 
account of Attila's threatened 
march. I chanced to pass by the 
Arch of Titus, where Pope Leo was 
describing, with burning words, the 
dangers of Church and Empire. I 
saw thousands of swords leap from 
their scabbards and crowds rush to 
swell the forces under the command 
of Aetius. A band of men and I 
alone remained unmoved. I made 
myself known to the Pope, and 
declared my determination of re- 
maining neutral. The eloquent Leo 
spoke once more, and this time, 
after a protracted struggle, I 
yielded, together with the other 
men, the ancient Bonifacian guard, 
who had not touched their arms 
since their victory at Revenna. 
They agreed to serve only under 
my banner. Aetius, who was at a 
short distance, approached; and 
under the circumstances he had 
need of such staid warriors. He 
greeted me with that servility of 
which mean characters alone are 
capable. We then undertook the 
campaign. To-day, when com- 
manded, I charged up this summit 
with my brave Bonifacians. Here 
a sharp conflict ensued between 
them and the troops forwarded by 
Attila for the same purpose. In 
the contest I came across Maximus, 
who levelled his spear at me. Other 
combatants rushing between us, 
prevented him from executing his 



criminal design. The foe was finally 
routed, and we remained masters of 
the field. This victory, wherein 
Aetiushad hoped I should fall a vic- 
tim, only kindled afresh his hatred. 
My brother and he hated me and 
sought my life. Such, Publius, is 
my history, such my grief." 

"Your kindness and sufferings," 
said Publius, deeply moved, "may 
be requited— you may live to see 
your brother reconciled." 

"Live! "exclaimed Sebastian, "no, 
death awaits me to-morrow. I 
know it. Willingly would I give up 
my life in sacrifice to obtain the 
victory for our side, and the recon- 
ciliation of Maxim us and Aetius." 

Saying this, he arose and looked 
out of his tent. It was a quiet 
night; at a distance twinkled the 
campfires of the foe, and behind 
the Roman trenches was heard the 
low tread of the sentinel, and the 
solitary blasts of the bucino, an- 
nouncing the hours of the night. 
All was still, but it was the calm 
preceding the tempest. 

Early, at break of day, the Roman 
lines were astir. One by one, the 
allies filed out from their quarters 
and grouped under the banners of 
their leaders. The imperial troops, 
a medley of Latin and German 
soldiers under the name Roman, 
occupied the centre; the Franks and 
Visigoths flanked the main body, 
which from the base to the crest of 
the above mentioned hillock was 
ranged in tiers, each man serried 
breast to breast. The Roman cav- 
alry, of which the Bonifacians 
formed the principal part, was held 
in reserve. It was a gorgeous spec- 
tacle — thousands of soldiers on 
whose mail the rising sun shone 
cheerily, the neighing of chargers, 
the cadenced beating of the hoofs, 
the tossing to and fro of standards; 
all these served to clothe war in 
less hideous apparel. But the 
grandeur and order now existing 
were soon to give way to the hor- 
rors of carnage. The Romans were 

not kept long in expectation. Each 
man, in breathless silence, now 
heard those indescribable but well- 
known sounds which always herald 
the tramp of battalions marching 
in battle array. The thin mist 
whicli crept along the ground was 
slowly lifted, and a dull brown line 
was seen moving over the plain. 
On came the advance guard of the 
Huns, .fifty thousand strong; cava- 
liers with pike, mace and pole-axe, 
seemingly a monstrous compound, 
half man— half beast. Nearer came 
that compact body until the smutty 
and deformed visages could be dis- 
cerned. Man and horse, on the 
side of the Romans involuntarily 
recoiled in horror; but the soldiers 
set their teeth, grasped firmly their 
lances, and instinctively drew closer 
together. There was no heavy ar- 
tillery, to plough with cross-fire 
that advancing column. The band 
of archers was merely enabled to 
pick out the foremost foemen. 
Right on came the charger, fast and 
steady, and with such impetuosity 
that the front ranks were run 
through and through by the Roman 

The main part of the enemy fol- 
lowed, under the leadership of At- 
tila and his sons, men and chiefs, 
who had not yet known defeat, but 
such was the dodged courage man- 
ifested by the Romans on this occa- 
sion that not one of their lines 
gave way. Thrice did the Huns 
waver and recoil, and thrice were 
their shattered columns brought 
back to the charge by Attila in per- 
son. The last time the Roman 
ranks were forced by the Hunnish 
king. Wherever flagged his war- 
riors or failed the hostile forces, 
there glittered his diademed casque, 
and fell his ponderous mace. The 
breach in the Roman phalanx 
proved advantageous to the barba- 
rians, who could best fight in dis- 
ordered sallies and skirmishes. A 
terrible confusion ensued. Here 
and there rolled disemboweled 
steeds, whilst others galloped away 



riderless. Close by were cavaliers 
hammering with their axes the hel- 
mets and bucklers of the infantry, 
or trampling- the wounded beneath 
their horses' hoofs. A short dis- 
tance off could be seen a hand to 
hand fight on the ground, rider 
and footman clamped in mortal 
struggle. Aetius, surrounded by 
his officers, squires and body-guard, 
stood on a hillock, scanning the 
field of action, giving orders, and 
sending reinforcements. He sur- 
veyed the hard fought contest, and 
it was not without apprehension 
that he perceived the enemy gaining 
ground inch by inch. With dismay 
he beheld the Franks turn and effect 
a precipitate retreat. These fugi- 
tives disheartened part of the 
Roman legions, while the pursuers, 
elated with success, bore all before 
them. But suddenly the scale of 
victory was turned. The Visigoths 
had been opposed to the Ostro- 
goths, and in the encounter per- 
ished the king of the former. Noth- 
ing daunted, the Visigoths rallied 
around the corpse, and routed their 
opponents. Bearing in triumph 
their monarch's body on their 
shields, they came pouring down 
like an avalanche, and charged the 
enemy's wing in the flank. Profit- 
ing by this favorable occasion, Ae- 
tius advanced with the cavalry. 
Sebastian, with his Bonifacians,led 
the onset. These veterans, cov- 
ered with scars, unfurled their tat- 
tered ensign, and setting up that 
same wild yell which they had raised 
at Revenna, they spurred their 
chargers. Lance in rest they met 
the foe, unhorsing all who barred 
their course. For a few moments 
nothing could be seen except the 
Roman horse, sweeping down the 
declivity, and the lifted swords of 
the exasperated Visigoths. Noth- 
ing could withstand that unforeseen 
shock. The Hunnish hordes were 
staggered; there was a backward 
movement — a rallying— a swift re- 
treat—the power of the Hun was 

crippled— religion and civilization 
were saved— but dear was the price 
of the victory. 

The day was already far spent, 
and but a few combatants tarried 
on the battle field. Amongst these 
was a young man, tall of stature 
and well proportioned, with astern, 
haughty countenance, which be- 
spoke him to be cruel, sagacious 
and enterprising. He was tugging 
away at a spear which was deeply 
imbedded in the cuirass and breast 
of a Roman officer. 

"Sebastian," he muttered, "de- 
generate descendant of Boniface." 

"More degenerate Maximus," 
cried a voice near by, "is a rebel 
and a fratricide." 

"Is it more disgraceful to 7-ebel in 
Gaul than in Africa?" asked Maxi- 
mus, as he turned around sharply, 
and beheld a gray-haired soldier, 
on whose head gaped an ugly 

"No," answered the other, "but 
from rebels we became loyal, and 
on this very battle-field the Boni- 
facians, to a man, have washed out 
that stain. Go and do likewise, or 
receive my dying curse." 

"Sebastian, whom you murdered," 
gasped another voice, "loved you, 
and offered his life in sacrifice for 
yours. Repent. — hear the words of 
a dying soldier." It was the voice 
of Publius, who, horribly mangled 
under the horses' hoofs, lay panting 
for breath. 

Maximus scarce heeded his words, 
but gazed unmoved at the plain, 
literally swamped with blood, and 
strewn with bleeding bodies, like the 
russet forest leaves of Autumn. 
The setting sun gave a glare to the 
sky, hung with twisted columns of a 
deep red line, whilst towering hazy 
clouds shot high up into the heav- 
ens. The entire landscape was 
bathed in fire— the hovering vul- 
tures, the camp and the battle-field, 
where lay in swaths the Huns and 
Romans— all was soaked in crim- 
son. .Maximus chanced to look at 


is hands; these too were red, red ulchre of the martyr Sebastain, 

ith the blood of his brother. Sick washed by the waves of the Medi- 

t heart, he closed his eyes to that terranean, on the shores of North- 

;ene of carnage; but the same im- ern Africa, there could be daily 

ge presented itself to his mind — found a middle aged man, praying, 

lood and fire — vengeance on earth, with his head bowed on the marble 

ternal flames hereafter. Severe slab. TendiDg to the sick in the 

as the conflict in his soul between hospitals, and encouraging the 

espair and repentance. With his Christians during the Vandal perse- 

reast torn with anguish, and his cution; his life was one of charity, 

>rm reeling to and fro, he stole prayer and mortification. This 

way from the field of death into man was the penitent Maximus. 
he darkness. 

Years rolled by, and near thesep- 



Tandem dierum splenduit ultima 
Et prceliorum terminus acrium 
Venit dies jugis triumphi 

Vulnera purpureo nitore 

Fulgent. Acerbas bellua centiceps 
Concepit iras hasresis aemula 
Sed tu subjecisti ferocem 
Vicit rabiem cruentem 

Qualis refulgens irradiat globum 
Splendore Phoebus ; moribus integer 
Dextra vigorem addis labanti 
Et stabilis recreas jacentem 

Clemens egenis, regibus acrior 
Quis obstitit, quis jura negantibus 
Magis timendus aut superbo 
Fortior, opposuit Tonantis 

Dextram rubentem. Propterea grave m 
Peregre pellent ; at veniet dies 
Quum civitas pastorem reposcet 
Aut cineres lacrymis piandos 

Ccelis apertis brachia coelites 
Arnica tendunt; tu preme lumina 
Ac turma? ovanti miscearis 

Cingeque perpetuam coronam. 

E. T. 




Delightfully Situated on Spring Hill Avenui 


recreation grounds extensivj 



$&&"!' or Particulars Send For Prospectus, 


w*u * 

Itt <$oli 











New Series. MAY, 1896. Vol. II, Nos. 1 and 2 



Quando dilectos socios relinquit 
Ductor invictus validae cohortis, 
Milites, fortes etiam, dolore 
Corde premuntur. 

Dedecet num nos lacrymis parentem 
Dum lares linquit comitare nostris ? 
Impotens luctum cohibere, moestos 
Dat lyra cantus. 

Si tamen Ductor patriae ad salutem 
Tendit indefessus iter, dolor em 
Milites ponunt, hilarique vultu 
Gaudia promunt. 

JV'ube nweroris quoque jam repulsa 
Gaudii nobis radius relucet ; 
Te, vocat viunus, tibi traditum, atque 
Cur a parentis. 

Laetus a nobis, Pater aline, laetis 
Perge cum votis, precibusque nostris ; 
Lumen ae vires tibi largiatur 
Dulcis Jesus. 

Leniter sternat maris aequor aura ; 
Splendeat caelum radiisque solis ' 
Vela dum pandit tua navis atque 
Vincula solvit. 

Dumque procedit medias in undas 

Fulgeat felix, maris ilia Stella, 

Atque te nobis properum reducat 

Incolumemque . 

J. irvinq. 




Sfc dided 

two years have 
by since Joseph 
LeBlanc departed from our 
midst, his pleasant remem- 
brance is still fresh. As a 
faint tribute, then, to his 
memory we gladly devote this page 
to a few lines of a letter written at 
the time of the sad event : 

"The joys of Christmastide were 
greatly marred this year by the un- 
expected visit of Death. The victim 
was Joseph LeBlanc, of Paincourt- 
ville, La., and no one could have 
been found better prepared for the 
summons. He was looked upon by 
all, professors and students alike, 
as a model of piety, diligence, and 
docility, and was already talked of 
as the probable winner of the Good 
Conduct Medal in thesmall division. 
On Monday, December 18th, 1893, 
he was seized with intense pains in 
the nerves, the usual symptoms of 
the fatal disease known as spinal 
meningitis. The parents were at 
once notified, but the progress of 
the sickness was too rapid, and he 
passed away before his father could 
reach Mobile. 

''The boy was unconscious during 
the greater part of his illness. Even 
in this condition, however, to the 
edification of his two brothers and 
of those who watched at his bed- 
side, the words of the 'Hail Mary ' 
were continually on his lips. The 
saintly boy had gone to Holy Com- 

munion the morning before he fell 
sick, and the year previous had de- 
voutly made the 'Nine Fridays.' Af- 
ter receiving the last sacraments, 
he died on Friday, the 22d, at fifteen 
minutes past twelve. 

'•On this occasion, the conduct of 
the boys was admirable. In several 
classes they, of their own accord, 
requested their professors to have 
the 'Beads' said in common for 
their departed friend. All the so- 
cieties of which the deceased had 
been a member— Sodalities, Brass 
Band— as well as the faculty, gen- 
erously contributed to the purchase 
of floral wreaths to be placed on his 
tomb, and nearly all the boys went 
to Holy Communion the following 
morning for the repose of his soul. 
There was a solemn Requiem Mass 
the next day. The body had been 
embalmed and placed in a rich cof- 
fin, to be taken to the bereaved 
parents. The boys followed the 
hearse about a mile from the col- 
lege entrance, the band playing 
funeral marches all the way. A 
touching and impressive scenetook 
place when the elder brother turned 
round to thank the boys for their 
sympathy: 'A sad Christmas gift, 
indeed,' he concluded, 'am I taking 
to my mother — the dead body of a 
cherished son; still, let not our 
gloom becloud the bright and merry 
Christmas I wish von all from mv 
heart.'" Ji. I. P. " 


To a bereaved mother whose son had died shortly before Christmas. 

Why heaves thy breast, poor sighing one ? For friends 
» In woe, perchance, thy tears thus bitter flow? 

Fell death thus haply wrings thy soul. If so, 
Come, join the shepherd band, that eager tends 
To Bethlehem grot. See Mary, as she bends 

To gaze upon her babe, her God. But lo ! 

For crib, she sees a cross ; thorns crown His brow; 
His side is gashed ; pierced are His feet and hands. 


That mother's pang would'st know ? First learn her love 
And Mary's love for Jesus, who can tell ? 
Still from her lips a willing "fiat" fell. 

And see ! bright beams of joy burst from above ; 

Lo ! Jesus smiles and Mary smiles : — gone, gone 

The thorns and nails and cross 

■gaze on ! gaze on ! 
E Lynch. 



T. JOHN, surnamed Chrysos- 
tom, or Golden Mouthed, on 
account of his wonderful gift 
of oratory, was born at 
Antioch about the year 344. 
After brilliant studies under 
Libanius, the most famous 
rhetorician of the time, John 
adopted the profession of law in his 
own native city. But he soon 
abandoned this career to devote 
himself entirely to the study of the 
Scriptures and to the practice of 
Christian austerities. 

In order the better to gain this 
twofold object, he left Antioch, 
retired to the mountains of Syria, 
where for several years he led the 
life of an austere solitary. Loss of 
health, however, forced him, much 
against his will, to abandon his 
dear solitude, to return to the 
world and mix with its busy 
throng. The holy Bishop Flavian 
raised him to the priesthood, and 
charged him to preach the word of 
God to his fellow citizens. The peo- 
ple of Antioch hastened in crowds 
to hear him, — heretics, Jews and 
Pagans mingled with the faithful 
and sat at the feet of the wondrous 
preacher, eagerly drinking in the 
saving words that fell from his elo- 
quent lips. Chrysostom's burning- 
words carried conviction to every 
mind, persuasion to every heart, 
so well did he know how to unite 
the closest reasoning with the 
tenderest pathos. His eloquent 
discourses were frequently inter- 
rupted by involuntary acclama- 

tions ami universal plaudits, which 
the modesty and the oft-repeated 
complaints of the holy priest could 
not entirely suppress. 

How much John was loved in his 
native city, is shown by the ruse 
that must needs be employed to 
transfer him thence to Constanti- 
nople. Asterius, Count of the East, 
had orders to send for him and beg 
the pleasure of his company to a 
church without the city. Having 
got him into his carriage, he drove 
off with him to the first station on 
the high road, where imperial 
officers were in readiness to convey 
him to Constantinople. He was 
raised to the Archiepiscopal see of 
the imperial city, and was soon 
as much followed, if not as popular, 
as at Antioch. "The people nocked 
to him," saysSozomon, "as often 
as he preached." He carried them 
away one and all and persuaded 
them to think as he did. They 
hung upon his words and could not 
have enough of them, they thrust 
themselves and jammed themselves 
together in an alarming way, every 
one making an effort to get nearer 
to him and to hear him more per- 
fectly." He had been the great 
preacher of the day for nearly 
twenty years, first at Antioch, then 
in the metropolis of the East; his 
great gift of eloquence was to be 
his own ruin. He fearlessly de- 
nounced the abuses of the great, 
boldly defended the rights of the 
poor and of the oppressed, con- 
demned the conduct of the Empress 


Eudoxia, a haughty and vindict- 
ive woman, and was, in consequence 
of his truly apostolic zeal, deposed 
from his see and banished to 
Cucusus, a little town in the valley 
of the Euphrates. 

Great were the sufferings, many 
the privations, which the holy 
bishop endured during his long and 
wearisome journey. The love and 
veneration of the faithful of 
Cucusus, the occasional visits from 
his warm-hearted friends, the af- 
fectionate letters from Constanti- 
nople, afforded great consolation 
to the infirm and aged bishop, and 
made amends for the harsh treat- 
ment he had received at the hands 
of his persecutor. 

But his enemies had resolved up- 
on his death ; they only hesitated 
how it was to be brought about. 
He must be carried off to some still 
more inhospitable region ; he must 
undergo the slow torture of a still 
more exhausting journey. Cold and 
heat, wind and rain, night air, bad 
lodgings, long foot marches, these 
were to be the instruments of his 
slow martyrdom. An imperial re- 
script was obtained from the weak 
Arcadius, banishing the Saint to 
Pityus on the northeastern coast 
of the Euxine. When he had 
reached Cornelia in Pontus, his 
strength completely failed him. 
The rude soldiers who accom- 
panied him saw he could go no 
farther and left him there to die. 
'•When he got to Coinena," says 
Palladius. he asked for white vest- 
ments suitable to the tenor of his 
past life; he clad himself in them 
from head to foot, and being still 
fasting he communicated in the 
symbols of the Lord. He said his 
customary words, 'Glory be to God 
for all things !' and then he 
stretched forth those feet of his 
which had been so beautiful in their 
running, whether to convey salva- 
tion to the penitent or reproof to 
sinners. And being gathered to his 
fathers, and shaking off this mor- 
tal dust, he passed to Christ." 

Thus in a strange laud, far from 
his beloved people, the light of the 
Eastern Church was extinguished, 
the eloquent voice was hushed for- 
ever. The translation of his sacred 
relics to Constantinople took place 
a little more than thirty years 
afterwards. "A great multitude," 
says Theodoret, "crowded the sea in 
vessels and lighted up a part of the 
Bosphorus, with brilliant torches. 
Theodosius the younger laid his 
face upon the coffin, and with tears 
in his eyes entreated that his par- 
ents might be forgiven for having 
so unadvisedly persecuted the 

O. Braud. Sup. Com. 


The reign of Arcadius (395-408), 
the elder son of Theodosius the 
Great, was disgraced by many 
proofs of weakness. One of the 
most striking, however, was the 
unlimited power and favors he con- 
ferred upon the undeserving and 
crafty Eutropius. 

Born in an obscure condition, the 
favorite had succeeded by his in- 
trigues, his unbounded ambition, 
and his flattery, to work himself 
into the good graces of the em- 
peror. Honors and riches were lav- 
ished upon Eutropius by his impe- 
rial master, and soon the minion of 
fortune surpassed his own sovereign 
in power and magnificence. He was 
finally raised to the patrician rank, 
given consular dignity. had statues 
erected in his honor and paraded 
the pompous titles of "Invincible 
warrior," and "Father of his coun- 

He was instrumental in the ap- 
pointment of St. John Chrysostom 
to the see of Constantinople. But 
the love he had shown the bishop 
was soon turned into implacable 
hatred. Chrysostom's boldness, the 
apostolic zeal with which he labored 
for the correction of abuses, public 
and private, could not fail to bring 
him into collision with Eutropius. 
The favorite's animositv was not 


confined to the saintly archbishop, 
but extended to the whole church. 
By an ignominious law which he 
passed in 398, the sanctuary was 
no longer a place of refuge in time 
of oppression, and its sacredness 
no more a guarantee for protection. 
In 399, the year of his consulship, 
the minion of power had reached 
the height of his greatness and 
ruled with a tyranny that knew no 

At length the day of retribution 
dawned. The continued scandals 
and abases of the favorite, the 
squandering of the public revenues 
to supply the demands of his luxu- 
rious prodigality, stirred the indig- 
nant wrath of both the people and 
the army. Gainas, the popular 
general, presented himself boldly 
before Arcadius and demanded the 
dismissal of his prime minister. 
The demand met the ready ap- 
proval of the Empress Eudoxia 
whom he had grossly insulted. 
Urged by her prayers and en- 
treaties, the weak Arcadius signed 
his favorite's condemnation. The 
magic spell was at once broken and 
men wondered at the vain charm 
that had held them so long in 
shameful thraldom. The acclama- 
tions that had so lately hailed the 
fortune of Eutropius, were sudden- 
ly changed into loud and angry 
cries, that now clamored for his im- 
mediate sentence and death. In his 
hour of distress and despair, the 
fallen minister'sonly hope was that 
church which he had persecuted, and 
his sole refuge, the very sanctuary 
his ruthless hands had barred to 
the wretched and fugitive. The 
next day, when the news of his dis- 
grace and the place of his refuge 
had been published throughout the 
city, the maddened populace ming- 
ling with the infuriated soldiery, 
rushed to St. Sophia to exult over 
the fall of their once dreaded tyrant 
and to drag him forth to punish- 

The moment was critical. Chry- 
sostom, insensible to danger when 

the voice of charity demanded his 

presence, made his way through 
the angry crowd to the spot where 
the victim of public indignation lay 
crouching in the dust, a living ex- 
ample of the vanity of human 
greatness. The golden mouthed 
orator ascended the pulpit, and in a 
burst of extemporaneous eloquence, 
began his famous Homily, whose 
chief merits will be discussed in the 
following paper. 

A. E. Hebert, Rhet, 


The Homily of Saint John Chry- 
sostom on the disgrace of Eutropius 
has always been ranked among the 
masterpieces of sacred eloquence. 
The old poet, Ennius, has defined 
oratory; 'Elexanima et omnium, 
regina rerum;" "a soul subduing 
and world-ruling queen." But that 
this mighty princess may exert all 
her powers, she must not rest satis- 
fied with merely seeking motives 
proper to persuade. She must also 
exercise the art of skillfully mar- 
shalling her materials so as to 
produce the most powerful effects. 

In the Homily in question, Saint 
John has made use of all the orator- 
ical precautions best suited to his 
end, and employed the rhetorical 
art with all the ability of a prac- 
tised master. 

The abrupt exordium was natu- 
rally suggested by the sight pre- 
sented to the eyeof hisexcited audi- 
tory. And a sad spectacle it was, in- 
deed. But yesterday Eutropius was 
the haughty minister, surrounded 
by power and magnificence; to-day, 
he is the crouching slave, the timid 
suppliant at the foot of the altar. 
The mighty has.fallen. the tempest 
has passed, the tree is blasted ; hu- 
man greatness has vanished like an 
empty dream, it has withered away 
like a delicate spring flower. Ideas 
like these, so beautifully developed 
by the topics of enumeration and 
definition, gently dispose the hear- 
ers to feelings of mercy and com- 


The repetition of the opening 
words, "Vanity of vanities, and all 
is vanity," at the close of the bril- 
liant exordium is very striking; it is 
like the recurrence of a favorite mo- 
tive in the overture of some great 

Yes, "Vanity of vanities, and all is 
vanity," write these words on the 
walls of your dwellings, carve them 
on your door posts, engrave them 
on your public monuments, imprint 
them deeply in your conscience and 
let them be the constant subject of 
your serious meditation. 

But it is necessary to divert the 
attention of the wrathful audience 
from the subject of its resentment. 
This, the orator does by a train of 
moralizing,clothedinthe most beau- 
tiful imagery. Then he turns to Eu- 
tropius. It is a consolation to the 
wretched that men condescend to 
address them, even in a tone of re- 
buke. But then rebukes are not di- 
rected to Eutropius alone. The 
Saint knows, that being divided, 
the intensity of reproach is weaken- 
ed ; indignation is lessened when ex- 
erted upon a number of culprits. He 
inveighs, therefore, against the fawn- 
ing courtiers, the perfidious syco- 
phants, whose servile flatteries were 
the principal cause of the minister's 
ruin and downfall. Then thegolden- 
mouthed oratorturns theattention 
of his hearers to the sufferings Eu- 
tropius is now enduring, by a, beau- 
tiful hypotyposis softens their 
hearts, and moves them to pity and 

Behold, he says to them, the man 
at whose word the whole world 
trembled. He is now degraded be- 
low the level of the meanest slave, 
more miserable than the captive, 
more abject than the vilest suppli- 
ant, more indigent than the beggar, 
who vainly implores the charity of 
the public. Every moment he sees 
the sword suspended over his head, 
and scans in imagination the road 
that leads to the scaffold. Wretched 
man! In the midst of noonday 

splendor he is unconscious of the 
light of heaven. But why seek ima- 
ages to describehis sufferings, when 
he himself in glowing colors depicts 
them in his own person. 

But yesterday, when the soldiers 
came from the imperial palace to 
drag him to his fate, in the agony 
of his terror he rushed to the altar. 
The paleness of death was on 
his face, his teeth chattered, his 
whole frame was convulsed, his 
speech broken, his palsied tongue 
stammered forth incoherent words. 

The orator has touched his audi- 
ence, he improves the advantage by 
having recourse to the pathetic. 
Wasthere victory more memorable, 
triumph more glorious than this 
for the church of God ? Her meek- 
ness confounds the Gentiles, puts the 
Jews to shame. She has pardoned, 
she has received, sheltered a fallen 
foe. Saint John forestalls objec- 
tions, and by answering, converts 
them into arguments in his favor. 
"Great triumph for the church, 
indeed !" exclaims one of his hear- 
ers, "to receive within thesanctuary 
the wicked and tyrannical minis- 
ter." "Oh, speak not thus, "answers 
the saint in his charity, "Did you 
forget that even a public sinner 
embraced the feet of Christ, and 
yet, pollution did not contaminate 
the pure, but the pure and spotless 
one rendered by His touch the pol- 
luted one pure and holy." 

The rich have learned a, powerful 
lesson, they feel convinced of the 
truth of the words of the sacred 
scripture, "All flesh is grass, and all 
the glory of man as the flower of 
the field." The poor rejoice and con- 
sole themselves in their poverty. 
Chrysostom's hearers can resist his 
eloquence no longer. Violent pas- 
sions are hushed, noble and gene- 
rous emotions are awakened ; indig- 
nation gives place to pity and com- 
passion ; abundant tears flow from 
every eye. The sacred orator has 
triumphed, Eutropius is saved. 

P. J. LeBlanc, Rhet, 



The fell wrath, goddess, sing of Peleus'son, 

Achilles, which on the Greeks brought countless woes 

And hurled to Hades many valiant souls 

Of heroes, leaving thus their limbs a prey 

To dogs and birds; so was Jove's will fulfilled. 5 

What time, first stood in strife opposed, the King 

Agamemnon, and Achilles bold. 

What God, then, thus at variance set the twain? 

The son of Jove and Leto; with the king 

Fell wrath, upon the host a killing plague 10 

He sent, because Atreides spurned his priest 

Chryses; unto the Greeks' fleet ships his child 

To free, with matchless ransoms had he come, 

And waving the Far-darter's fillets from 

Their golden staff, sued the Achaeans all, 15 

But most the twain Atreides, marshals of the host. 

"Ye sons of Atreus and ye well-greaved Greeks 
May they, who in Olympus dwell grant you 
Priam's town to sack, then homeward safely fare, 
Only give back my child, accept the gifts 20 

Revere Apollo, Jove's far-darting son." 
At this the Argive host loud cried assent 
To reverence the God and take the gifts; 
But, ill did great Atreides brook the word, 
Harshly he bade him off and sternly charged: 25 

"Let me not catch thee midst the hollow ships 
Old man, returning more or tarrying now, 
Lest naught avail thee godly bands or staff. 
For her I yield not; Nay! shall age o'ertake 
Her in my halls, in Argos, far from home, 30 

Where she shall ply the loom and dress my couch. 
But hence! chafe me no more, and safer fare." 
He spake. In dread the old man straight obeyed. 
The shores of the loud-sounding sea he sought, 
Forlorn, and there apart the drooped form prayed 35 
Apollo, kingly scion of Leto fair: 

"Hear me, God of the silver bow t thou guard 
Of Chrysa, sacred Cilia, lord of Tenedos, 
Smintheus! To thee, if e'er a gracious fane 
I built; to thee, if e'er fat thighs I burnt, 40 

Of bulls or goats, then hearken to my cry; 
By thy darts let the Greeks my tears atone." 
Thus he implored. Apollo heard the prayer. 
Down from Olympus high, in wrath he came, 
Quiver and bow across his shoulder flung. 45 



J^oud rattled the arrows o'er his angry back, 

Whilst down he strode with frown as dark as night, 

Over against the ships he sat, then aimed. 

Dread rang the twanging of the silver bow. 

The mules and dogs, at first, he pierced. Eftsoons, 

Turning on men his deadly bolts, he smote. 

Then funeral pyres countless, ceaseless smoked. 

Nine days upon the hosts the god's shafts ranged; 

The tenth, Achilles called the folk to meet, 

The white armed Juno, 'twas the thought inspired, 

With pity stirred to see the Argives die. 

J. Irving 



)OUTH of India, on the Island 
of Ceylon, some years ago, in 
a small hut encircled by a 
vast grove of cocoanut trees, 
lived a toddy collector and 
his wife. They resided in this 
lonely, but picturesque spot 
for the purpose of tapping the sur- 
rounding trees, which yielded a rich 
golden sap in the language of the 
Island called "toddy." 

When exposed to the sun, and al- 
lowed to ferment, this becomes a 
most palatable, but also, alas, a 
most intoxicating drink. The col- 
lector daily went into the grove to 
gather the pots of sap, late how- 
ever in the afternoon, in order to 
avoid the intense heat of the sun. 
One evening during his absence 
a peddler with a large knapsack of 
wares came to the house, and ap- 
proaching; the front porch, rapped 
loudly with his heavy cane on the 
floor. It was seldom that a 
stranger was seen in this wild and 
desolate region, and the toddy col- 
lector's wife on hearing the knock 
eagerly hastened to the door. She 
willingly permitted the stranger to 
display his goods. She bought a 
few trifles, and her eyes were fast- 
ened with lingering, covetous gaze 
on many another she could not 
purchase. It was then late; the 
sun had already set, and the ped- 
dler asked permission to remain on 
the veranda during the night. The 

woman gladly granted his request. 
Was it not an opportunity to filch 
by stealth what she could not 
honestly obtain? On the veranda 
there was a bench which answered 
the purpose of a bed. and after the 
hostess entered the house the 
worn-out traveler immediately lay 
down, and putting his knapsack 
under his head fell asleep. 

He slept for about an hour; sud- 
denly he awoke, and looking around, 
saw the hostess standing in the half- 
open door. The moon was shining 
brightly, and he beheld the glitter- 
ing blade of a long knife in her 
hand. His fear and his suspicions 
were aroused, and he decided to 
sleep no more to be on his guard 
if the woman meant to harm 
him. He watched her closely 
to see what she intended to do, but 
she, preceiving he was awake, mut- 
tered an excuse, and left the door. 
She returned several times after- 
wards, and peered out, not know- 
ing that she was watched by the 

She at last closed the door, 
and seemed to have retired for 
the night. But the peddler could 
not compose himself to sleep, 
For an hour nothing occurred, 
and he was about to believe his 
fears were ill-founded, when the 
faint sound of a footfall attracted 
his attention. Looking towards 
the steps of the veranda, he saw 



the hostess gliding stealthily up, 
knife in hand. He sprang to his 
feet, but the woman calmly told 
him that she had been in the grove 
cutting down toddy pots, and after 
talking awhile, bade him good 
night and passed into the house. 

The peddler did not accept the 
hostess' excuse, and was so fright- 
ened that he decided to hide in the 
woods until morning. But then, 
fearing he would be attacked by 
the wild beasts of the jungle if he 
proceeded far from the house, he 
took his knapsack, went a short 
distance from the house, and 
climbed to the lower limbs of a 
tree, to be out of the reach of the 
wild beasts. He had been in this 
position but a few moments, when 
he saw a man approaching the 
steps of the porch with a sack on 
his back. He immediately knew 
him to be the toddy collector. The 
new-comer stepped on the veranda 
and proceeded to the bench. Throw- 
ing his bag of toddy pots on it, to 
make a pillow for his head, he lay 
down, and putting his handkerchief 
over his face, went to sleep. 

Suddenly the door opened, and the 
hostess crept softly and slowly out, 
with the glittering knife above her 
head ready to strike the deadly 
blow. Cat-like she advanced 
towards the sleeping man ; when a 
few feet away she rushed at the 
outstretched form, and thrust the 
long and sharp blade through his 
heart. The sleeper groaned ; his 
arms moved convulsively ; then all 
was silence. On drawing the knife 
from the body a piece of the blade 
broke off and remained in the 
bench ; the woman did not notice it 
as she drew the bloody weapon, and 
then flung it in an old water-tank 
at the back of the house. The ped- 
dler was looking on from his seat 
in the tree; paralyzed with fear and 
horror he could not utter a sound. 

The murderess meanwhile had re- 
turned to obtain her coveted prize, 
and seeing the bag x>f toddy-pots 

under the man's head, a bag simi- 
lar to the knapsack of the peddler's, 
she quickly reached for her reward. 
As she drew it from under the head 
of the corpse the handerchief cover- 
ing the face fell to the floor. At the 
same time the moon peered from 
behind a cloud, and its rays flooded 
the porch, exposing to her eyes the 
pale, ghastly face of her husband. 
With a cry of horror she sprang 
back, and screaming fled from the 
house. But she soon regained her 
composure, and quickly made up 
her mind. Running to the nearest 
town, she told the officers of justice 
that her husband was murdered 
by a peddler during the night. On 
hearing this the officers immedi- 
ately set out with the woman to 
the scene of the crime. During the 
woman's absence, the peddler was 
too frightened to leave his position. 

When the officers arrived, he 
heard the woman accusing him of 
the murder. He shook with fear 
from head to foot, and the very 
boughs of the tree were shaken. 
This attracted the attention of one 
of the officers. A rifle was pointed 
at him, and he was commanded to 
come down and surrender. The 
peddler obeyed, and was taken to 

At his trial he pleaded not guilty; 
but however was sentenced to 
prison for many years on circum- 
stantial evidence. Still the judge 
was not satisfied with the evidence 
given, and decided to search the 
house. This was done, and on 
closely examining the bench on 
which the toddy collector was mur- 
dered, they found a piece of a knife 
blade, and before they had finished 
searching the premises, discovered 
the remainder of the weapon in the 
old water-tank. It was shown to 
the woman. With a fearful cry she 
fell on her knees before the judge and 
confessed the crime. The peddler 
was released ; the murderess met 
the doom she had so well deserved. 
R. H. Wilson, First Com. 





"the first warbler whose sweet breath, 
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth, 
With sounds that echo still," 

was the son of a London 
vintner, and was born at 
beginning of the fourteenth 
century. The events of his boy- 
hood and early youth are 
hidden in obscurity. We know, 
however, that he received an excel- 
lent education, either at Oxford or 
Cambridge, and as several of the 
Greek cities of old claimed the hon- 
or of giving birth to the bard of the 
Iliad and the Odyssey, so these 
universities claim the great story- 
teller as their own, each loudly as- 
serting that he was her student. It 
is commonly believed that he com- 
pleted his literary studies at the 
University of Paris, then thronged 
with thousands of eager scholars. 
Thus, we see, our good old bard 
had the advantages of a thorough, 
systematic training; and these, 
blending with his great natural 
talents and wonderful gift of song, 
have rendered his name immortal. 
We see him some time later at 
court; then performing the stern 
duties of the soldier, in tent or field 
facing the summer heats or bleak 
December's winds, meeting every 
danger, undergoing every hardship 
for his native land. Following the 
English troops into France, he is 
taken prisoner at the siege of Ret- 
ters in 1359. After a year's cap- 
tivity, he is allowed to return to 
his dear England, where he 
is loaded with favors and be- 
friended by King Edward III. He 
was afterwards employed on sever- 
al foreign diplomatic missions, and 
while in Italy, he met, it is supposed, 
the celebrated Petrarch. Lastly, 
he is made comptroller of the port 
of London. At this time he mar- 
ried a lady named Phillippa Pieard, 
the sister-in-law of the Duke of 
Lancaster. A noted feature in 
Chaucer's life was bis lovaltv to his 

friends, and especially the tender 
affection he showed his wife and 

Good King Edward was now 
dead, and Richard his successor 
ruled in his stead. Chaucer was 
in favor with the king, and a bright 
future smiled before him. What 
more could he wish? Richard was 
his friend. But his patron, John of 
Gaunt, was not on good terms with 
his sovereign, and in a riot in Lon- 
don the poet sided with Lancaster; 
thereupon he was forced to fly to 

Several years afterwards, when 
the king's resentment had died 
away, the exile set foot once 
more on the shores of his loved 
country. But this happiness was 
blasted for a time. As soon as his 
arrival was made known to the 
king, he was seized and cast into 
the tower. However, owing to the 
intercession of his friends, he was 
released, and being again, restored 
to royal favor was given the lucra- 
tive position of clerk of works at 
Westminster, receiving a yearly 
income of twenty marks. Wearied 
at last of public duties, Chaucer re- 
tired to his home where he enjoyed 
the pleasures and comforts of a 
country life. He was now more 
than sixty years old, yet he began 
to write the famous Canterbury 
tales. In 1399 he rented a little 
cottage in the garden of the con- 
vent chapel at Westminster, and 
here in the quiet of religious seclu- 
sion our great bard spent the even- 
ing of his days. Right well, with 
prayer and penance did he prepare 
himself for his great pilgrimage, 
and as the fourteenth century was 
just ushering in another cycle of 
years, he that has been called "The 
Morning Star of English Song" 
quietly passed away to another 
and better world. 

Chaucer had begun his literary 
career early in life, rendering into 
English verse the great poems of 
other languages, and at times even 
surpassing the originals. His chief 



works are the "Romaunt of the 
Rose," 'The Flower and the Leaf,'' 
'•The House of Fame," and the 
"Canterbury Tales." Upon these 
we may rightly dwell for a short 
time, for they bear the impress of 
his genius. The "Romaunt of the 
Rose," a poem of 22,000 lines, is a 
translation from one of the master- 
pieces of French literature, and 
greatly surpasses the original 
poem in every respect. "The 
Flower and the Leaf," a short tale, 
is noted for its simplicity and 
clearness of style, and its happy 
moral. His "House of Fame" is 
one of the best allegorical poems 
in the English language, and is 
noted for its wealth of imagination. 
It is a description of the Temple of 
Glory where all the heroes and 
worthies of olden times have placed 
their abode. 

The poet tells us how in a dream 
he had been borne by a giant 
eagle to a lofty fane. The ma- 
terials outshone polished brass; 
the foundation was a rock of ice. 
Its illustrious inmates stood upon 
columns of different metals accord- 
ing to their merit and dignity; in 
the middle upon a rich throne 
sparkling with preciousgems. Fame 
ruled. But suddenly a venerable 
old man enters, the poet awakes, 
his dream is passed. 

His masterpiece, the "Canterbury 
Tales," is the fruit of his old age; 
they are much longer than the Iliad 
and double the length of Paradise 
Lost, the metrical part alone ex- 
tending over seventeen thousand 
lines. As they now exist, they are 
only twenty-four in number and 
therefore incomplete, since Chau- 
cer's plan was to make each of the 
thirty-one pilgrims relate two 
stories going to, and two returning 
from the shrine. But alas, old age 
stayed its execution, and death 
smote him whilst still engaged in 
the task. The plot of these tales 
is very simple. Thirty persons 
have come to the Tabard Inn, on 
the outskirts of London, on their 

way to the famous shrine of St. 
Thomas a Becket. Having de- 
termined to accompany the band 
of Pilgrims, Chaucer joined them. 
The proprietor, Harry Bailey, 
promises to act as guide, and be- 
fore leaving, it is agreed that each 
one of the band, in order to relieve 
the tediousness of the journey, will 
relate two stories on the way to the 
shrine and two whilst returning. 
But this is not all; when the pil- 
grimage is over, the victorious 
story-teller is to get a grand sup- 
per at the others' expense. Thus 
there should be one hundred and 
twenty-four tales, but as is already 
mentioned, death prevented their 
completion. To this work there is 
a prologue containing some eight 
hundred lines, in which the author 
gives a very graphic description of 
the pilgrims and of their dress and 

The prologue is a real portrait 
gallery, varied in tint and tone; 
the personages peer out from the 
canvas, natural and lifelike. What 
a motley gathering!— The Knight 
With His Yeoman Attendant, The 
Country Gentleman, The Parish 
Priest and His Brother, An Honest 
Plowman, The Miller, The Bailiff, 
The Prioress, The Wife of Bath, 
The Merchant, The Doctor, The 
Sea-Captain. With the most 
exquisite taste each story is 
adapted to the narrator. The best 
tales in the opinion of all, are the 
following: That of the Knight, 
"Palamon and Arcite," so well 
known as to need no comment. 
Throughout this piece the style is 
pathetic and noble, it has moved 
many a reader to tears. Well con- 
ceived, too, is the tale of the good 
parish priest, which is something 
of an elaborate sermon dealing 
with the seven deadly sins, and the 
means to overcome them. A 
touching legend is the one told by 
the Prioress: How little Hugh of 
Lincoln was cruelly put to death 
for chanting hymns to the most 
Blessed Virgin Mary. As we know. 



in pathos and in charactered raw- 
ing, Chaucer its unrivalled. Let 
us glance at the story of Constance: 
The Man of Law, must relate a 
story, and he tells us that Con- 
stance, a beautiful Roman Princess, 
had wedded the Sultan of Syria. 
On her wedding- day she was seized, 
cast into an enchanted ship and set 
adrift by her cruel mother-in-law. 
She floated o'er the tossing billows 
for many a year and at length was 
driven to the shores of Britain. 
There the Governor of the port and 
his wife Hermegilde rescued her. 
But a false knight who hated Con- 
stance, because she had once 
rejected his love, slew Dame 
Hermegilde * * ' and accused Con 
stance of the crime. She was then 
summoned into the Royal presence, 
and it was declared that she must 
perish unless she find a champion 
to avert the accusation. This 
found a tender cord in the king's 
heart, and he thus spake: "Have 
you no warrior, fair maid, to prove 
your innocence in combat with this 
knight.'' *None but God," she re- 
plied in a doleful tone as she grace- 
fully fell on her knees, and looked 
piteously about her. 

"J lave ye not seen sometime a pale face 

Among a nress of him that has been led 

Toward his death, where as he gets no grace, 

And such a color in his face hath had. 

Men m ighten know him that was so bested, 

Amongst all the faces in that rout? 

So stands Constance and looketh her about." 

But the king himself became her 
champion. The Gospel was imme- 
diately brought, and as the knight 
swore that she was guilty an un- 
seen hand performed its work, and 
he fell to the floor, his neck broken 
and his eyes bulging from his head. 

The kino 1 now married her who 

was so miraculously protected. 
Whilst he was engaged in foreign 
wars a son was born to them. Our 
heroine again fell a victim: this time 
to her second mother-in-law, who 
managed to have her cast once 
more on the wide sea, where she 
lived on board of that wonderful 
vessel till her son had attained 
manhood. She was then restored 
to her husband, and the tale ends 

The scene painted by our author 
when she is sent to the ship with 
her child, is a heartrending one, 
and is in his tenderest vein. 

"Her little child lay weeping on her arm, 
And kneeling piteously to him she said: 
'•Peace, little son, I will do thee no harm" . 
With that her coverchief off her head she braid, 
And o'er his little eyn she it laid, 
And on her arm she lulleth it full fast, 
And unto heaven hereyen cast. 

Therewith she looketh backward to the land 
And said, 'Farewell husband ruthless;' 
And up she rist, and walketh down the strand, 
Toward the ship her followeth all the press, 
And ever she prays her child to hold his peace; 
And taketli leaved and with a holy intent. 
She blesseth her, and into the ship she went." 

Chaucer was the founder of that 
great and wonderful structure 
which wind and rain are unable to 

"quod nee Jovis ira nee ignis 
Nee poterit ferrum nee edax abolere vetustas." 

Not like other poets who have at- 
tracted attention for a while, and 
then are forgotten like the flashing 
meteor whose fiery trail is suddenly 
lost in the darkness, but like the 
undim tried and ne'er decaying orb 
of day his fame shines in golden 
hues, and his name with those of 
Shakespeare, Milton, Spenser and 
Wordsworth, stands foremost in the 
annals of English literature. 

E. B. Colgin, Poet, 




Sighing, sighing, sighing! 
Rise the strains of grief and mourning; 

Wrung with woe and crying, 
Where her dying Lord hangs bleeding, 

Lo ! the Church is lying. 
List ! her children now are joining 

In her grief and sighing 
'Till the earth is with their wailing 

Sighing, sighing, sighing! 


Pealing, pealing, pealing! 
Loud the glee bells now are ringing; 

Heavenly joy revealing, 
Near her Lord, in glory rising 

See! the Church is kneeling; 
Hark! her children, round her thronging, 

Anthems glad are pealing, 
'Till the sky is, with their singing 

Pealing, pealing, pealing! 

J. M. Johnson. 


tLL Rome was an 
That proud au< 
which was "tin 

an ocean of fire, 
id might j city 
he mistress of 
the world and the metropo- 
lis of theinhabited earth, des- 
tined by the gods to unite, 
civilize and govern the 
scattered races of men," was 
a furnace of seething, hissing, flames. 
From Capitoline to Palatine, from 
Aventine to Esquiline streamed the 
red lurid light, rising and surging 
like the fretful billows of a troubled 

Along the broad avenues those 
magnificent structures, erected at 
princely cost, were crumbling and 
falling before the attack of the de- 
stroying element. Hovel and palace, 
residence and basilica, all furnished 
fuel for that dreadful conflagration. 
As 1 passed with my guide up the 
Sacred Way, memory and imagina- 
tion were at work. Only yesterday, 
there stood on right and left proud 
palaces with their white marble por- 

ticoes and glinting walls, reflecting 
the beams of the morning sun, and 
entirely ignorant of their impending 
doom. Now they were converted 
intolivingfurnacesof ragingflames. 
and the stately walls and pillars of 
yesterday were charred and crumb- 
ling ruins. 

People were running madly up 
and down this once beautiful av- 
enue, and losing my guide, I was 
hurried along with thecrowd totally 
ignorant of the direction in which I 
was going. Walls were falling on 
all sides and at every step we seemed 
to be pushing nearer and nearer to 
this sea, of fire. At length, we came 
to an open spot at the foot of the 
Palatine, and here with much diffi- 
culty, I extricated myself from the 
crowd and stopped a moment to 
gain my breath. 

Just at my left stood the amphi- 
theatre, a grand and noble piece of 
architecture, now blazing from every 
entrance and aperture with forked 



tongues of fire. I made my way 
quickly to the top of the hill in 
order to obtain a better view of the 
sublime spectacle. Turning around 
and casting my eyes downward, I 
beheld a sight, at once awful and 
magnificent. Dense volumes of fire 
and smoke were issuing from every 
opening in the walls, and the roar 
of the flames, fanned into fury by 
the raging wind, suggested the dis- 
tant rumbling of an earthquake. 
As I gazed down into the seething 
mass, it seemed to me that the very 
demons of hell had lent their aid in 
the work of devastation. Gallery 
upon gallery, tier upon tier of seats 
smoked, blazed and crumbled to 
ashes as the lurid monster passed 
and caught them in his fiery grasp. 

In the arena, the animals intended 
for the games were rushing round 
and round, seeking an opening 
through the fiery barricade. Now 
they madly dashed towards the 
main entrance, only to be driven 
back smarting and howling with 
pain. Now, in their vain endeavors 
to escape they leaped high into the 
air only to fall back again a charred 
and lifeless mass. 

I strained my eyes to see if 
anyone had been so unfortu- 
nate as to be caught inside 
and walled in by this prison of 
flames, but I could see no one and 
inwardly I thanked God for this 
discovery. But, lo! what is this 

sight that bursts upon my gaze? 
Can my eyes deceive me? No, they 
have seen aright; a human form is 
imprisoned in this cell of fire. At 
this fearful sight a thrill of horror 
shot through ray frame. By the 
light of the flames I could distin- 
guish every feature of the unfortun- 
ate prisoner. He was an African 
slave who was either defying death, 
or had been unable to escape. He 
had taken his seat upon the throne 
of the emperor as if in mockery, 
and with the flames rising and his- 
sing around him, sat cool and col- 
lected eyeing with seeming delight, 
the sufferings of the animals below. 
As I stood gazing upon the placid 
countenance of the unfortunate 
man, the flames were creeping closer 
and closer around him. Every in- 
stant brought him nearer and 
nearer to death, yet he stirred not 
a muscle, but as calm as though 
upon a bed of roses he sat indiffer- 
ent to the fierce flames that were 
roaring and hissing about him. 
Struck with horror I turned away. 
Scarcely had I taken my eyes from 
the dreadful sight when a sudden 
crash broke on my ear. Instinct- 
ively I turned again toward the 
amphitheatre, but my eyes beheld 
only the smoking debris of that 
once proud structure. The walls 
had fallen. Man and beast were 
buried in their ruins. 

J. H. Mock, Rhet. 


E were all earnestly engaged 
n class matter and every 
one paying strict attention 
to the teacher (we always 
do pay strict attention 
during class hours), when we 
were disagreeably interrupted by a 
sharp knock at the door. At the 
whispered request of the janitor 
(we never speak above a whisper 
in First Grammar), the intruder 
entered, and we perceived that he 
held a large, official looking enve- 

lope, bearing the following address: 
"To the Members of the First 
Grammar." Havingdeliveredthis, 
lie at once retreated and left us 
wondering what the mysterious 
missive might contain. However 
we were not left long in doubt, for, 
although couched in that most 
classical of languages— Latin, we 
quickly ascertained that it was a 
challenge to a contest in Latin, to 
take place between the members of 
First and Second Grammar, at 

VJaJUU ^ ^V^v^ ^^ 




some future date to be mutually 
agreed upon. 

For some moments after this had 
been read to us, we were completely 
paralyzed by their impudence, but 
we soon recovered and began to 
give vent to our feelings. 

"What impudence !" "Well, I de- 
clare! challenging us. rJ "Whoever 
heard the like?" Such were some 
of the various exclamations which 
escaped us in our excitement. It 
did not take us long, however, to 
take up the gauntlet, and that very 
day the members of Second Gram- 
mar were in receipt of a peppery 
epistle, which doubtless made them 
feel like changing their minds, and 
yielding to us, without further dis- 
pute, the supremacy in the ancient 

But we must confess that they 
were plucky little fellows, although 
they soared too high ; for they 
agreed to meet us on the field of 
battle two weeks from date. 

So that was how the grand bat- 
tle between the middle and the 
superior grammar classes started; 
a battle which will pass down in 
the annals of Old Spring Hill, as 
one of the greatest achievements 
that a First Grammar class ever 
accomplished. For, although we 
have been wrestling with Latin for 
one more year than they, yet, it 
must be remembered that we meta- 
phorically speaking, gray haired 
First Grammarians, have forgot- 
ten in our old age and in our pur- 
suit of higher knowledge, the little 
niceties of the Latin Grammar 
which are yet fresh in the minds of 
our youthful friends of the class be- 
low us. 

But to come to an account of the 

contest itself. For the two weeks 
before hand we applied ourselves 
diligently to our books, and al- 
though we said little, any one could 
see that there was blood in our 
eyes, and that if that prize was to 
be won at all, it would be ours. 

Soon Expectata dies aderat, 
and for the first hour and a half 
that morning, notasound could be 
heard in the hall except the scratch- 
ing of pens and turning over of 
dictionary leaves. Sometimes a 
frown of perplexity would be seen 
on a boy's face, but generally, it 
disappeared after a few minutes of 
diligent search, and in its place 
would come a broad grin of satis- 
faction, or perhaps a half whispered 
"Ah!" of self-congratulation. In 
fact, all of us were plunged head 
over heels in Latin, but we finally 
struggled to the top, and on reach- 
ing the surface, we heard the glad 
news that we were victorious. It 
was quick work, but while it lasted, 
it was a hotly contested race. 

If you should desire to hear the 
particulars, tradition will inform 
you; and even though you should 
inquire years from now, we have no 
doubt that the contest, between 
First and Second Grammar of the 
year '95, will be still fresh in the 
memory of those who took part in 
it. But do not make the mistake 
of asking a Second Grammarian, 
even though he be then in Philoso- 
phy ; they are wonderfully sensitive 
on this point, and would be apt to 
give you misleading information ; 
and then we should always be con- 
siderate of the feelings of a van- 
quished foe. 

S. A. Tieknan, First Gram. 




"Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit." 
"Momentaneum et leve tribulationis nostra; sternum gloriae 
pondus operatur in nobis." 

In quest of some bright song, some numbers meet, 
This thrice blest day, Christ's veteran to greet, 

I climbed the mystic heights of Fancy's mould, 
Where dwell the seers and bards of old. 

Reaching their fane, my search I boldly spake, 

And lo ! full myriad answers varied wake 
From myriad tongues within the hallowed hall, 

Blending and yet distinct withal. 

"Sweet, sweet the labors past," soon blithely came 
From one whose garb and lyre his Mantuan fame 

Revealed. "Thy theme," I cried, "I love full well; 
Sing on, the reason haste to tell." 

"They're o'er, they're o'er," he sang, "ah this is why 

The labors past are sweet !" At such reply 
Dejected, sad, I turned my steps away 

To seek a truer, nobler lay. 

But scarce my face was turned, *'Hold, stranger, hold," 

Fell on my ears in tones, both sweet and bold. 
Then he of Tarsus stood from out the throng 
•And straightway sang a higher song: 

"Sweet, sweet the labors past; their toil is o'er, 

But ah! their guerdon lasts forever more." 
Join, comrades, join to swell the numbers meet 

This day Christ's veteran to greet. 



One cup of water — humblest token 
To the poor when given in love, 
One gentle word in kindness spoken 
For Christ, is recorded above ! 

The hand that lifts the drooping head 
Will be gemmed with jewels rare, 
The eyes that bend o'er the sufferer's bed 
Will glitter with radiance fair! 

And how mete out with measured dole 
To Thee the reward and the praise ! 
How weave for thee, O Priestly Soul, 
The garlanded laurels and bays? 

Not here, not here thy guerdon lies, 
Not here such garlands bloom, 
Earth treasures not a fitting prize: 
Look heavenward — beyond the tomb! 



ngel, dear Angel, my Guardian, my Guide, 
As I lay me to rest, come and stand at my side, 
Shield me with buckler, with falchion and spear ; 
Demons will tremble when Thou art anear! 

Angel, sweet Angel, whose golden harp rings 
In the courts of Jehovah, with outstretched wings, 

Shadow thy ward — he needeth thy light ; 
Rugged the path is, and dark is the night! 

Angel, strong Angel, guard, guard me I pray, 

Put the demons to flight in their battle array ; 
Give thou the war cry, unsheathe thy good brand, 

Angel, my Angel, with Thee I will stand. 

Angel, mild Angel, if e'er from thine eyes, 

For me tears have fallen in yon azure skies, 
See how encompassed with dangers I live — 

My Guardian and Friend, forgive me, forgive! 

Angel, sweet Angel, I'll grieve thee no more — 

Thy soft, gentle words I will heed as of yore 
The young Hebrew lad once followed his guide ; 

Angel, my Angel, I will stand at thy side. 

B. Farrell. 

Book Second. 


>^^) The young Romans took as much 
C/f^HE misfortune of the ^ nei d interest in construing the beautiful 
Ijfo) has been, no doubt," says ii nes of his .Eneid, as our own 
^ Nettleship, "that Virgil so youths take in any of our eminent 
openly challenged a com- authors, such as Shakespeare, Mil- 
parison with the Homeric ton, Scott or Pope, 
poems,"— yet Virgil as a i n the middle ages, when Greek 
story-teller has always been the literature had become almost ex- 
most widely read and most popular tinct, and the Iliad in the original 
of all the old classic writers. was a sealed book even to scholars, 
His poems were read by his own Virgil was still the favorite with 
countrymen, with great interest young and old. When Dante then 
even in his own day, and some chose him as his guide through the 
fifty years after his death they were mysterious regions of Heaven, 
admitted to a very questionable Purgatory and Hell, the great 
honor; they became text books in Florentine was but voicing the 
the school room, a rank and posi- sentiments of civilized Europe 



which looked upon the gentle bard 
of Andes as its great teacher and 

But some one may say that Vir- 
gil is now only fit for the class 
room and his lines are uninterest- 
ing to the modern mind. The 
proof of the falsity of this asser- 
tion is, that even in practical as- 
semblies, such as the English House 
of Commons, not always very 
patient of mere literature, a quota- 
tion from Virgil will be listened to 
with the greatest interest. Another 
very strong proof is the success of 
the eminent writers, such as Dry- 
den, Pitt, Pope, Symmons and 
Conington, who have translated 
his ^Eneid into our Anglo-Saxon 

The chief causes of Virgil's popu- 
larity are the choice of his subject 
and his noble thoughts which make 
us marvel that one who had been 
raised as a pagan should express 
such sentiments. His treatment of 
the tale "The Fall of Troy and the 
flight of the Trojans to Italy to 
found the great Latin nation" is 
perfect. "The Romans would never 
have tolerated," says Shairp, "to 
hear that their ancestors, Latin 
and Sabine, had been conquered by 
the Phrygians whom they despised; 
but the East, they looked on as 
the land of mystery, the birthplace 
of religion, and they were not unwil- 
ling to receive thence their first 
lesson in divine thiugs." 

It is as the bearer of the Tro- 
jan gods to Italy, as the founder 
of a new and mightier order of 
things that the hero of Virgil's 
story appears from first to last. 
This is his main function, in fact, 
his only duty, his sole task, and, 
this achieved, his mission is ended, 
his work, done. It is a mistake to 
look in .ZEneas for a mere fighter or 
warrior: he is the man of destiny 
whom the gods are to make the 
author of the great and mighty 
nation which is to rule the world. 

"Genus undo Latlnum 
Albaniquc patres atque altra moonia Roma)." 

"At the close of the poem, the last 
of all the difficulties, Juno's vin- 
dictiveness is appeased when she 
is told by Jupiter that her favorite 
Italians were to be unremoved, 
their place and name preserved. 
The Trojans were only to hand on 
to them their worship and their 
name, and then to disappear. 'The 
Ausonians shall keep their native 
tongue, their native custums. The 
name shall remain as it is. The 
Teucrians shall merge in the nation 
they join: that and no more; the 
rites and worship shallbe my gift. 
"All shall be Latin and speak the 
Latin tongue.' " 

Virgil has great descriptive and 
narrative powers. When he des- 
cribes anything, it seems as if it 
were represented on canvas before 
the eye. 

But the main reason of Virgil's 
popularity is his tenderness — he 
reaches the heart. Then too bis 
pictures of friendship, such as the 
story of "Nisus aud Euryalus," 
his pastoral simplicity, such as the 
description of the life and home of 
good King Evauder; and the 
masterly description, in the second 
book of the /Eneid, for instance 
"The Dream oLEneas," "TheRescue 
of Old Anchises," and the " Deaths 
of Priam and Laocoon;" all these 
have won our love. It is true Vir- 
gil has his faults. His characters 
when compared to the actors of the 
Iliad seem somewhat pale and 
faded; he has no man-slaying 
Achilles, no Diomede, no honey- 
tougued Nestor, no Ulysses; but in 
the opinion of the great critics, 
taking him altogether, his purity, 
his unworldliness, his tenderness 
towards the weak and down-trod- 
den, his lofty sentiments, we appre- 
ciate the words, which old legends 
say St. Paul uttered on visiting his 

"Quern te virum reddiclissem, 

Si te vivum invenissem, 

Toetarum maxime!" 

"What a man I would have made of thee, 

Had I found thee alive, 

O greatest of the poets." 

Chas. L. Taylor, Poet. 




W T V taken 

in the tenth year of 
ar, mighty Troy was 
by stratagem. Now 
this was the manner and 
fashion thereof. The Greeks 
made a great horse of wood, 
pretending it to be a votive offering 
to the gods, that they might have 
a safe return to their homes. In 
the belly of this, there hid them- 
selves many of the bravest of the 
chiefs, Pyrrhus, the son of Achil- 
les, Sthenelus the friend of Ty- 
dides, Machaon, Epeus and the 
crafty Ulysses. The rest of the 
people made out as if they had 
gone to their native country. But 
they went not farther than Tenedos, 
an island near the coast. When 
this report reached Troy, there was 
great joy among the people, and 
right gladly did they fling wide the 
gates and go forth upon the plain. 
And some were amazed at the 
greatness of the gift offered to Min- 
erva. But they knew not what 
it contained. One of the Trojan 
elders advised that it should be 
carried into the city and placed 
within the shrine, but Capys, the 
high priest, said that it should be 
destroyed, and the people were 
divided, some saying one thing, 
and some another. Then came 
Laocoon crying that the sons 
of Teucer should trust not in the 
fatal gift. 

He spoke, and with his arm's full force 
Straight at the belly of the horse 

His mighty spear he cast; 
Quivering it stood; and the sharp rebound 
Shook the huge monster, and a sound 

Through all its caverns passed. 

In the meantime, there came a 
band of shepherds dragging with 
them a youth with his hands 
securely fastened behind his back. 
And the young men of Troy as- 
sembled mocking him, but King 
Priam commanded silence, and 
ordered the prisoner to tell who he 
was. "My name is Sinon, and I 
deny not that I am a Greek," said 
the youth. Artfully then did he 
give his lying tale. Ulysses, crafty 

Ulysses, he said, had doomed him 
to a cruel death, and his blood shed 
at the altar was to secure the re- 
turn of the Greeks to their homes. 
But he had burst his bonds, and 
now craved the pity of Priam and 
his people. The Trojans believed 
him, and bade him be of good cheer. 
They then questioned him about 
the wooden horse. "It is an offer- 
ing to Minerva, he said; "bring it 
into your city, and you are invin- 
cible. Nay, Troy will one day lay 
low the proud city of the Pelopidae." 
Scarce had he finished when the 
gods sent another marvel to de- 
ceive them. Laocoon the priest of 
Neptune was about to sacrifice a 
huge bull to that god, when there 
came over the waves from Tenedos 
twin serpents, and making for Lao- 
coon, and his two sons soon de- 
stroyed them. Now all said that 
the horse must be taken within the 
city. The huge Scaean gates were 
opened, and a breach was made, 
and rollers were placed under the 
wooden monster, and a great troop 
of men, and boys, and maids, with 
ropes attached to the horse, and 
holding them securely in their hands 
started for the Scaean gates, pulling 
the fatal gift behind them. And 
yet there wanted not signs and 
tokens of evil to come. 

"Four times 'twas on the threshold stayed, 
Four times the armor clashed and brayed, 
Yet pass we on with passion blind 
All forethought blotted from our mind, 
Till the dread monster we install 
Within the temple's tower built wall." 

Cassandra also prophesied evil, 
but she was heeded not. Troy was 
doomed, and now must meet her 

The mighty city was wrapped in 
slumber, the moon shone in all her 
splendor, as if she was rejoicing at 
the terrible catastrophe which 
would soon befall. About the sixth 
hour of the night Sinon the traitor 
was watching in the direction of 
Tenedos, and seeing a flame rise up 
from King Agamemnon's ship, as a 
signal for the Greeks, knew that 
soon they would be at the gates. 
Silentlv groine; where stood the 



wooden horse, he opened a secret 
door and the Grecian chiefs issued 
forth. Then all quickly passed 
along the deserted streets to the 
Scaean gates, and having killed the 
guards opened the passage-way to 
their comrades. Meanwhile yEneas 
lay wrapped in slumber. Butlo! the 
ghost of Hector appeared to him. 
"Troy is doomed," said the son of 
Priam, "rise, goddess born, fly, es- 
cape these flames" . But hark ! 

the sound of battle comes nearer, 
and nearer, and ./Eneas hearing the 
great uproar climbed upon the lofty 
walls. And lo ! the whole city was 
on fire. Then he buckled on his ar- 
mor, and rushed to the palace. 
Now upon the battlements yEneas 
saw some Trojans fighting, and he 
knowing a secret door joined his 

In the meantime some of the 
Greeks sought to break down the 
gates to the palace, and foremost 
among them was Pyrrhus, son of 
Achilles clad in shining armor. 
With a huge axe he hewed down 
the door-posts although they were 
plated with bronze, and made a 
great window, and rushed in at the 
head of his men, and killed many 
of the Trojans. 

'•Perhaps you ask of Priam's fate, 
He, when he sees his town o'erthrown, 
Greeks bursting through his palace gate, 
And thronging chambers once his own, 
His ancient armor, long laid by, 
Around his palsied shoulders throws, 
Girds with a useless sword his thigh, 
And totters forth to meet his foes.'' 

Pyrrhus rushes in, with his axe 
he fells Polites, Priam's son, to the 
ground. The old king hurls a javelin 
at the Greek. 

"A feeble dart, no blood that drew; 
The ringing metal turned it back, 
And left it clinging weak, and slack. 

Pyrrhus drags the old king to the 
altar, and buries his steel in his 
heart. Priam is no more. 

While the fair city of Troy was 
sacked by the Greeks, Venus, the 
mother of iEneas, appeared to her 
son, and havingpointedout to him 
how Juno with spear and shield 
stood on the Scaean gates, calling 
fresh hosts from the ships, told him 

to fly to the land, where he would 
be the father of a mighty empire. 
Obeying his mother's command, 
yEneas sought his father, Anchises, 
that he might take his aged sire 
with him. Having found him, he 
asked the old man to save his life 
by flight, but Anchises would not 
move, preferring death in Troy to 
liberty on a foreign shore. ./Eneas 
eagerly, tenderly besought the old 
man. Driven then by despair and 
anguish, he rushed forth to meet a 
hero's death. Scarce three steps 
had he taken, when his wife, Creusa, 
placed his son, lulus, in his arms. 
And lo ! upon the boy's head a 
bright flame is seen to burn. Father 
and mother would have tried to ex- 
tinguish it, but Anchises saw that 
it was a heavenly sign of future 
greatness, and now submissive, al- 
lowed .Eneas to place him upon his 
sturdy shoulders, and to carry him 
away from these scenes of slaughter 
and bloodshed. Then ^Eneas with 
lulus at his side and his wife fol- 
lowing, departed for the temple of 
Ceres outside of Troy. Soon he 
heard the Greeks approaching in 
hot pursuit. Going through many 
an unfrequented by-path he reached 
the temple. Here he found a 
throng of fugitives. Having depos- 
ited his precious burden in safe- 
keeping, he gazed around. But lo ! 
Creusa was nowhere to be found. 
Frantic with grief he rushed back 
to the doomed city in quest of her. 
Among the smoking ruins of once 
mighty Troy, JSneas loudly called 
his dear wife's name. Suddenly her 
ghost appeared to him. Creusa 
told him not to grieve, as she was 
now out of danger, having escaped 
Grecian slavery: "it was the will of 
Heaven that she should die." 

^Eueas then obedient to the wishes 
of the gods, yet weepingfor his lost 
Creusa, left his native city in ruins. 
He and his followers went to Mt. 
Ida, where in the winter they con- 
structed a few ships, and with the 
first signs of summer departed for 
lands unknown. 

R. Garnett, Poet. 







BOOK it, LINES 199-228. 

ND now another sight more frightful still 
Breaks on our gaze and fills our souls with awe. 
Laocoon, as Neptune's priest that day, 
With solemn rites then sacrificed an ox 

Of giant size before the shrine. But lo! 

From Tenedos, over the sleeping mere — 

I shudder while relating such a tale — 

Twain serpents coiled in circles vast now breast 

The deep, and ranked aside glide toward the shore. 

Erect amidst the waves their bellies rise, 

Their manes blood-red above the breakers tossed, 

Their tails behind in fury sweep the main, 

And onward trail a huge and sinuous length. 

Around, the churning brine is dashed in foam ; 

E'en now they gain the strand, the shore, the plain, 

Their glaring eyes blood-shot, on fire, their fangs 

All fork'd and playing in their hissing jaws. 

Awe struck we fly ; unswervingly they keep 

Their course, and to Laocoon in fury glide. 

At first around his little sons they fold 

Their coils, and with their fangs their limbs devour. 

The sire then rushing to their help and armed 

They next attack, and round him lash their coils. 

Twice round his waist they wreathe their folds, 

Twice round his neck their length they draw, 

And o'er his head their bloody fangs uprear. 

With strength untold, and agonizing clutch 

He strives their knots to burst, his priestly bands 

Spattered with gore — with venom foul besmeared. 

The while with fearful cries the welkin rings, 

Such cries doth raise a wounded bull when he 

Darts from the altar dashing from his neck 

The ax ill-aimed. Butlo! the dragons twain 

(jlide to the temple's top, Tritonia's shrine, 

And lurk beneath the Goddess' feet and shield. 

Meanwhile, our hearts with deadly fear are cowed 

And thrilled with strangest fright. All cry aloud : 

" Laocoon received a chastisement most meet, 

For he defiled the sacred wood, and hurled 

His guilty lance against the horse's back." 

J. A. O. Coignet, Poet. 




JHE passage we are endeavor- 
ing to analyze has been de- 
clared by the scholarly Chat- 
eaubriand an abridgment, a 
resume' of the qualities and 
genius of the great Mantuan 
bard. In it, you have his 
pathos, his tenderness, his feeling, 
his religious spirit, his picturesque- 
ness and his wonderful power of ex- 
pression, all woven together into 
these thirty lines, and forming a 
literary wreath of surpassing excel- 
lence and beauty. 

Tempua erat quo prima quies mortalibus aegris 

It was the hour when Heaven gives rest 
To weary man the first and best. 

In these very first lines you have a 
quality possessed by Virgil, in com- 
mon with the great masters: he 
knows the value of contrast. 

Fearful indeed is the sight of the 
great Hector, bruised and mangled, 
as he rises before the son of 
Anchises, yet, it comes to him in 
the quiet' stillness of the night, 
when nature is at rest, and the re- 
pose of the universe forms a back- 
ground for his gloomy picture. Vir- 
gil is seldom vague ; time and place 
he marks in a masterly, touching 
manner. What force throughout 
the /Eneid in his epithets alone : 

Et dnlces moriens reminiscitur Argos. 
And on his darling Argos thinks and dies. 

Words with great writers are liv- 
ing things, and they do not trifle 
with them. What ' effect, for in- 
stance, has the word "wizard" in 
Milton's Lycidas? 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless 

(lee P . , • , ^ 

Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep. 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids lie. 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 

What striking associations it 
brings up to the mind of wonders, 
fairy tales and romantic deeds! 

With Virgil, everything is indi- 
vidual and concrete, everything 
clear and vivid. In the next lines 
another quality no less remarkable 
is to be found. 

In somnisecce ante oculos mastissimus Hector. 

Lo! as I slept in saddest guise, 
The form of Hector seemed to rise, 
Full sorrow gushing from his eyes; 
All torn by dragging at the car, 
And black with gory dust of war. 
As once on earth his swollen feet bored. 

Those big tears, "largos fletus," 
so touching on a hero's cheek; those 
swollen feet pierced with the cruel 
thong, that long drawn, sorrowful 
word "maestissimus;"how all these 
paint the scene; how they seem to 
rush from the poet's heart! Then 
comes the contrast again. Not thus, 
not thus, we saw you when your 
hand wheeled the firebrand on the 
Grecian galleys, and when every 
Danaan quaked with fear at the 
sight of the crest tossing Trojan. 

A stroke of genius is this, for it 
brings us back to the day of Hec- 
tor's great triumph, when e'en the 
proudest of the Greeks fled before 
his lance. 

Again! what love, what tender- 
ness is in the words: 

Vnlneraque ilia gerens quae circum plurima inuros, 
Accepit patrios: 

And all those many wounds were there, 
Which on his gracious person fell, 
Around the walls he loved so well. 

Hector fought for hiscountry, and 
in this picture naught is forgotten. 
Virgil, by these exquisite strokes, 
has painted the hero, glorious even 
in death, glorious, though his beard 
begrimed with dust and his locks 
clotted with gore. 

Squalentem barbam et concretos sanguine crines. 
Blood -clotted hung his beard and hair. 

No wonder that at sight of him 
.Eneas breaks out into the enthusi- 
astic appeal. 

Lux Dardanidae, spesO lidissima Teucrum! 

"O! Day Star of Dardanian land, 

O! faithful heart, unconquered hand." 

.Eneas yet imagines that he is ad- 
dressing the living hero; there is the 
incoherency of the dream ! 

Ah ! since we saw you, many a woe 

Has brought your friends, your country low. 

But gloomy, silent Hector stands. 

How solemn this pause, how ex- 
pressive, how phantom like! Then 
again hislongdrawn sigh, his rapid 

Heu! fuge, nate dea, teque his, ait, eripe flammis. 

Ah! Goddess-born, he warns me fly, escape these 



How quick, bow rapid the words, 
but, too, how sad ! 

Hostis habet muros; ruitalto a culmine Troja. 
Greece holds the walls; 
Proud Ilium from her summit falls. 

The poet makes us feel that all is 
lost; Ilium falls; hope there is none. 
As a last stroke of genius, Hector 
stoops, and his shadowy arms 
grasp the fillets, the statue of 
Vesta, and the sacred fire, and his 
form is seen no more. The envious 
gods are leaving Troy, thus fulfill- 
ing the words Hector himself said 
not long before, to Andromache at 
the Skaian gates. 

The day shall dawn when Sacred Troy must fall, 
And Priam's folk, and Priam of the ashen spear. 

To conclude, Virgil displays iu 
these thirty lines, all his masterly 
attributes. But, what appears 
most strikingly is his exquisite im- 
agination, with his tenderness and 
his magic power over language; and 
these force us to exclaim: "Virgil is 
a prince amoug poets, and his man- 
ner of relating the Dream of .Eneas 
truly magnificent." 

J. McCormick, Poet. 


T must, 
sented itself to 
many to ask 

no doubt, have pre- 
the minds of 
the question: 
Why do we spend so much of 
our timein thestudy of pagan 
authors like Cicero, Homel- 
and Virgil? Can these writers 
teach us any great lesson, any im- 
portant truth?" At first, it does 
not seem likely they can. Yet, if 
we think more seriously on the sub- 
ject, we shall find in their works 
many a precept that we can bring 
home to our minds. In these brief 
remarks let us confine ourselves 
to the Second Book of the iEneid. 
What have we here? A nation's 
ruin, a nation's fall; its people sub- 
dued by the foe, driven from their 
native city, scattered as exiles over 

the earth. But for all these woes, 
for these dreadful scenes of blood- 
shed and slaughter, there is some 
reason, some cause. When the 
Trojans received within their walls 
the guilty Paris, they, in a way, 
became partakers in his crime and 
guilt. As a punishment for this, 
the gods doom the city of Priam 
of the good ashen spear, to ruin 
and destruction. No one is spared; 
the aged Priam is murdered in his 
palace by the son of Achilles, 
Hector, gallant Hector, is dragged 
lifeless around the walls; Andro- 
mache becomes a slave, Hecuba 
sees her daughters and sons either 
sacrificed to appease the ghost of 
Pelides, or perfidiously slain. - The 
crime of Paris alone carries deso- 
lation to thousands. Such is the 
will of the gods. In the words of 
Ion : 

'Tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, 
Sorrow shall answer for it. 

Yes, sorrow and misery follow iu 
the track of sin. Virgil though a 
pagan instinctively felt this, and 
we see the working out of the de- 
crees of Jove in the overthrow of 
proud and lofty Ilium. Naught 
can avail Troy, neither her armies, 
nor her heroes, nor her mighty 
name. She has not justice with 
her, she falls. 

Our Shakespeare has truly said : 

"Thrice is he armed, that hath his quarrel just, 
And he but naked, though locked up in steel 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted." 

In reading Virgil we see that he 
recognized this great law: man 
cannot offend with impunity; he 
may escape chastisement for a 
while, but the day will surely come 
when in some way or other he 
shall rue the moment when he dis- 
obeyed Heaven's command. 

Virgil saw this. Preeminent 
among the writers of the Augustan 
age, he stands for the lessons he 
teaches, and he deserves our praise 
for ever speaking on the side of 
religion and justice. 

E. Braun, Poet, 



PSALM 23. 

^Eternas portas, cives, attollite laeti! 

Intret splendoris Rex atque triumphans. 
At quis splendoris Rex atque triumphans ? 

Est Dominus fortis, praeclarus in armis. 
Ascendens duxit captivos daemone captos. 

Ipse est splendoris Rex atque triumphans. 

G. Stafford, Phil. 



adly and slowly sinks the star of day; 
Sadly and softly fall the shades of night; 
John, the Beloved, stands with wistful sightj 
From his lone roof, bent toward the Eastern way. — 
But lo! a sudden light of Heavenly ray 
Bursts on his gaze; nine choirs of Angels bright 
Descend — anon they bear in upward flight, 
A peerless queen midst strains of Heaven-born lay. — 

At dawn, once more the twain with hurried gait 
Press on; now, to the mother's tomb they hie. 

Once more, John's ardor must for Peter wait; 
E'er long they stop and scan with eager eye 

The vault. — There lies the neediess pall alone! — 

Once more from Earth hath Heaven claimed her own. 

J. Johnson. 


O Cor dilectum diro mihi vulnere laesum, 
Inflamma gelidum pectus amore meum. 

Sive tuae calidas fornacis comprime flammas, 
Aut ut ameris amans, tu mihi prome faces, 

Aut ut sollicitae mentis voto jam quisque fruatur, 
Sit mihi cor majus, sit tibi flamma minor. 




*5jl quuiu nobis tua semper 
£s£» j ucu n dissi m a p r sb s e n t i a , 
tuum autem coiijirierciuni 
dulcissimum, quumque nobis 
semper in deliciis fuerit ilia magna 
qua nos prosecutus es eura et 
patientia quae culpiset vitiisuostris 
uon solum non irascitur, sed eadem 
potius monitis, adhortationibus, 
sacrifices perpetuisque orationibus 
ante thronum Domini effusis, ea 
corrigere couatur, fieri non potest 
quin tot tantaque beueficia ad- 
miratione, grato animo, seriis 
conatibus nostris amoreque con- 
stat! ti rependamus. 

I taque, Pater Reverende, redeunte 
tuo die festo, qui numquam dis- 
ci pulorum collegii Sancti Josephi 
memoria excidet, te rogamus ut 
benignus, vota, congratulationes, 
signaque amoris accipias, eorum 
qui ut tibi constantis curae et 
sollicitudinis fuerunt, ita tui ini- 

memores numquam se futuros esse 

Utinam, teduce, tautumincogni- 
tione profanarum litterarum, 
scientiae, liberaliurnque artium et 
praesertim tautum in solidapietate 
et virtute proficiamus, quantum 
tarn multi alii Jesuitarumdiscipuli, 
eadem disciplina et praeceptis 
edocti, profecerunt, quantum mens 
tua, semper quam attentissima in 
id quod ad nos pertinet, vult, 
quantum denique dator omnium 
bouorum, Deus Optimus maximus, 
concupiscit, ut doctrina et virtute, 
auxiliis patriae, societati gloriae et 
Ecclesiae, matri nostra?, decori esse 

Quae ut omnia nobis contingant, 
semper, Reverende Pater, bouum 
Deum orare velis ut quod discipulis 
deest, tuis sacrificiis orationibus- 
que t'ervidis consequi mereantur. 

D. Duchamp, Rhet. 


>0W that the summer months 
have returned and brought, 
together with their heat, 
those swarms of malignant 
little creatures called flies 
and mosquitoes, I find great 
difficulty in applying myself to my 
studies/ Disgusted by the contin- 
ual interruptions of these trouble- 
some little insects, I have some- 
times abandoned my tasks com- 
pletely and contented myself with 
doing nothing. 

As is but natural under these cir- 
cumstances, my mind begins to 
wander and I frequently find my- 
self absorbed in some fantastic day 
dream. Recently the heat was so 
intense and the villainous flies and 
gnats so persistent in being in 
every place where their presence 
was least desired that I finally re- 

signed all hopes of ever memorizing 
the day's lesson in Paradise Lost. 
Leaning back in my chair and fold- 
ing my arms, I managed to repel 
the repeated attacks of several 
bold and adventurous gnats, but 
soon ignoring their caprices and 
skilful manoeuvres I began to gaze 
blankly at the wall before me. 

Anon my attention was arrested 
by a beautiful painting of a palace 
in Mexico. This was food for my 
imagination, so, forgetting the 
vicious little insects, which still in- 
sisted on examining all the intri- 
cacies of my elaborate physiogno- 
my, I soon started on my journey 
to the kingdom of Micomicon. 

Falling deeper into my reverie I 
saw the fair capital of the Aztecs 
appear before me as in a beau- 
tiful vision or panorama. There I 



beheld the olive-complexioned na- 
tives with their wide brimmed 
sombreros sauntering along* the 
broad avenues. The boulevards 
were crowded with long trains of 
equipages. Handsome ladies and 
gentlemen were seated in each, con- 
versing glibly in their soft, melo- 
dious language. Then suddenly 
mingling with the stream I was 
borne along until I stood before 
the magnificent castle of the picture. 

How beautiful it looked in the 
bright sunlight with its elegant 
turrets, white marble walls and 
large gardens of tropical plants! 
The air was balmy aud redolent of 
the sweet perfume of aromatic 
flowers so varied and abundaut 
in that country. The trees swayed 
gently in the morning breeze, and 
unable to resist the delicious in- 
fluence of this Elysiau scene, I 
gradually lost consciousness. 

I could not have slept very long, 
for when I awoke, the same vision 
arose before my mind, only the 
palace had, by some magical 
transformation, been turned into a 
circular edifice. I wondered what 
this immense structure might be, 
for it bore a striking resemblance 
to the Coliseum at Rome. A motley 
throng poured in at every one of 
its many entrances, and, curious 
to know what was happening with- 
in, I entered. When I reached the 
interior I seemed to acquire the 
qualities of an ethereal being and 
was thus enabled to view the whole 
scene at once. I soon discovered 
that it was an amphitheatre and 
the gay populace, attired in the 
most brilliant and flashy hues 
imaginable, filled every seat in the 
vast enclosure. Looking down 
iuto the arena I beheld a torrero 
on horseback with a long lance 
standing to one side, while several 
men in knee breeches teased a large 
bull with a red scarf. From this 
I concluded that a bull fight was 
about to take place and my keenest 
interest was aroused, when lo! 
the scene was instantaneously 

changed, and I again stood before 
the beautiful palace. "What place 
can this be?" I asked myself, and 
instinctively looking at the guide 
book in my hand I read the first 

"Sing, licavcnly muse, that on the secret top 

Of Oreb. or Sinai, didst inspire 

Tluit shepherd who first taught the ehosen seed."' 

This of course reminded me of a 
neglected task, and I forgot the 
splendid Mexican city to con those 
famous lines of Milton. 

Presently a little dark object 
moving over the front of my desk 
again drew my attention from my 
book. It was a small gray spider 
creeping stealthily along the uarrow 
edge. There was a fly upon the 
cork of my ink bottle, and from the 
aggressor's mauuer I presumed it 
was his intention to make a meal 
of that unfortunate insect. Closer 
and closer he came until the fly, 
which was engaged iu rubbing its 
fore legs together, turned, and see- 
ing its hereditary foe advancing, 
was paralyzed with fear. But the 
merciless spider with one quick leap 
seized it in his mouth and ran away 
with his prey still struggling for 
liberty. "A tragedy in one act," 
thought I, as I repeated the words: 

"Sing, heavenly muse, that on the secret top" 

over and over again without once 
thinking of their meaning or even 
knowing that they were on my lips. 
At a loss to know what to think 
about, I chose another picture for 
my theme, and my eyes fell on a 
large lithotint representingagrand 
ball at the court of Elizabeth. 

This time, however, I did not 
allow my imagination to entice me 
so far as to place me among the 
guests, but I merely enjoyed my- 
self at the expense of the queer dress 
and manners of those days. The 
men wore knickerbockers and white 
stockings, low shoes with large 
silver buckles, coats that were 
neither "cutaway" nor "sack," but 
something betwixt and between, 
and to cap the climax they had 



those dreadfully effeminate ruffles 
all down the front of their shirts. 
1 leave the other article of raiment, 
a "peruque," to the reader's imagi- 
nation. In our modern taste the 
women would be simply abom- 
inable; in accordance with the 
fashions of those days they wore 
decolletce, with an amazing brevity 
about the sleeves. Their waists 
were so small that they resembled 
closely the attenuated thorax of a 
wasp. As a matter of course the 
remainder of the dress had a long- 
train and was a regular dry goods 
display of all manner of flounces, 
ruffles and other complications of 
the seamstress' art. It was never- 
theless a very pretty picture. The 
hall was very spacious and floored 
with divers colored tiles. The walls 
and carved cornices were hung with 
magnificent tapestries; the ceiling 
was decorated with beautiful fres- 
coes and mosaics. The dancers 
were many, but how stiff and digni- 
fied in their movements! 

Many coy maidens were seen 
seated* on the high-backed chairs 
and sofas that lined the apartment. 
Here and there a young gallant 
was seen standing before one of 
them conversing or making a low 
salaam. At intervals, also, there 
were solemn, sour looking maids of 
an 'apocryphal age' seated alone 
and demurely surveying the scene. 
It was evident that they were 
chaperons of those young ladies 
just entering society, or else their 
situation must have been exceed- 
ingly embarrassing. 

One couple in particular was very 
interesting. They were seated in a 
dark corner in the back ground. 
The young lady occupied a wide 
sedan and seemed very modest and 
bashful, but nevertheless sat very 
erect upon the uncomfortable seat. 
The young man was leaning to- 
wards her with an elbow on his 
knee, bracing himself with his other 
hand on his thigh and his foot 
under the sofa. There was a smile 
on both faces, and from the voung 

lady's expression I presumed she 
was saying: "Wh3 T , how sudden, 
Reginald ! I really think you will 
have to ask papa." 

At this juncture my pleasant 
meditations were interrupted by a 
disturbance in the study hall. Some 
mischievous lad had succeeded in 
bringing to his desk, undiscovered, 
an enormous lizzard. He had tied 
a large piece of foolscap paper to 
the unfortunate animal's preheu- 
sible appendage and set him free. 
After having perambulated all over 
the room to the great amusement 
of many idle boys, he had reached 
the middle aisle directly in front of 
the exasperated prefect's desk. 
This naturally caused a general 
outburst of laughter. Frightened 
at the noise the lizzard darted 
under the desk and disappeared. 
Soon nothing was heard save the 
scratching of pens, moving of feet 
or an occasional cough. The idea 
then occurred to me to study my 
lesson, so I began : 

"Sing, heavenly muse, that on—" 

"I wonder whether Milton ever 
went to college," crossed my mind. 
To satisfy my curiosity, I looked at 
the brief sketch of his life on the 
first page of my book. Before I 
had read one paragraph I saw that 
he had gone through a complete 
academic course. Moreover, as the 
author asserted, his assiduous ap- 
plication had been one of the 
principal causes of his subsequent 

This seemed to bode me no good, 
and to rid myself of the misgiving, 
I became interested in the evolu- 
tions of a studious boy near me, 
who was driven -almost to distrac- 
tion by some insignificaut insects. 
He was trying to learn a few lines 
of Virgil, but it seemed impossible 
for him to keep his mind on his 
task, and I saw several times beam- 
ing in his countenance the ardent 
desire to give us samples of a vari- 
ety of choice and select brands of 
petty curses and maledictions. First 



a fly came and alighted on his nose. 
He waived him off; he came again, 
and again he was brushed away. 
Then a doughty little gnat appear- 
ed, and in a sort of unpremeditated 
manner endeavored to penetrate 
his visual organ ; with great 
patience the boy rubbed the intrud- 
er out. Then another inquisitive 
little pest came and flew several 
times around him ; but now the suf- 
ferer grew excited, and seizing his 
handkerchief waived it desperately 
above his head, starting almost 
aloud on: "Conticuereomnesinten- 
tique ora tenebant." Just at that 
moment, a buzzing u June bug" 
thought he would distinguish him- 

self by flying directly against the 
lamp globe. This he did, and fell 
senseless upon the unhappy stu- 
dent's desk. The latter was about 
to utter the most copious and di- 
versified specimens of imprecations 
on the insect kingdom when the 
bell rang for class, and all the boys 
arose. With a start, I also sprang 
to my feet and tried to collect my 
books, conscious meanwhile that I 
would receive the inevitable retri- 
bution sure to be heaped upon me 
for not knowing any more of my 
Milton than : 

Sing, heavenly muse, that on the secret top 
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire — 

A. Lambert, Rhet. 


aT5«JhE most conspicuous of all 
jfmft the writers, whose fame 
&&J graces the pages of Irish 
literature, is Thomas Moore, 
a great poet, a witty jester 
and a true gentleman. This 
favored child of the lyric muse was 
born in Dublin on the 28th of May, 
1780. Sprung of Catholic parents, 
he was, according to English law, 
debarred from the advantages of a 
university education. Rut such 
natural genius as he possessed was 
not destined to be lost from want 
of training. In 1793, parliament 
repealed the unjust statute which 
bigotry and religious animosity had 
enacted against Catholics. 

Soon after this, Moore entered 
Trinity College, where four years 
later he graduated with high 
honors. In this seat of learning he 
displayed great taste for the 
classics, and most of his leisure 
hours he devoted entirely to the 
study of Greek and Latin authors. 
He was now twenty years old, the 
time when youthful aspirations are 
loftiest. With his vivid imagination 
he pictured himself a famous lawyer, 
pleading before a, tribunal of justice; 
a member of parliament, carrying 

through an Irish bill bv 

his cogent 

reasoning and flowing eloquence; a 
high political official, winning the 
esteem of his friends and command- 
ing the admiration of his country- 
men. It was after some such rev- 
erie as this, that he decided to study 
law and realize the bright dreams 
of glory and renown which had en- 
gaged his mind by day and haunted 
his dreams by night. 

Soon afterwards, we find him in 
London hard at work among a 
stack of law books, but almost dis- 
gusted with his dry employment. A 
born poet can never succeed in the 
study of law. There is too little 
music in its prosaic style to satisfy 
the longing of his soul after the 
beautiful. Moore's airy visions be- 
gan to fade away, and anon disap- 
peared entirely. He then turned to 
the faithful muse, and one of his 
first productions was a beautiful 
translation of the Odes of Awacreon. 
It is condemned, however, as being 
too faithful a translation of the 
rather crude original. It is related 
that his spiritual director rewarded 
him for this laborious task by im- 
posing on him a penance, which was 
to be performed daily for twenty- 
five years. Poor Tom manfully 
complied, but not without often 



giving vent to his feelings in the or- 
dinary mode of expression which 
characterizes the angered Celt. 

His numerous juvenile poems are 
full of harmony, and portray in 
language richly clothed with tropes 
of every variety, the different shades 
of love. This passion seems to be 
his favorite theme. Although he 
treats it in a sense less noble than 
that which is its due, yet, iu our ad- 
miration for his masterly selection 
and marshalling of words we forget 
this fault. By his elegant diction, 
Moore possesses the art of setting- 
off the simplest and most common- 
place ideas to such an advantage, 
and, as it were, so entirely trans- 
forming them, that they are eagerly 
read by all, whereas, if expressed in 
ordinary words they would never 
be noticed. The chief feature of his 
poetry is the thorough manner in 
which he controls the metre, and to 
this may be attributed most of his 
success. There is music in every 
line he wrote. 

Early in the nineteenth century 
he commenced his famous "Irish 
Melodies," in the composition of 
which he spent more than twenty- 
five years. They number one hun- 
dred and twenty-four in all, and 
must be looked upon as the most 
valuable of his works. In the words 
of an eminent writer, they "circle 
his name with a charm against 
death." Moore by his great exer- 
tions revived the national songs of 
his native isle, and lived to see them 
known and appreciated all over the 
English speaking world. This res- 
toration of the songs of Ireland is 
very beautifully expressed by him 
in the following words : 

Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee, 
The cold chainsof silence had hung o'er thee long, 

When proudly, my own island harp, I unbound thee, 
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song. 

In some of his melodies Moore 
sings the praises of the ancient Irish 
heroes, and laments that their glory 
is now faded and gone; in others 
he bewails the sorrows of down- 
trodden Erin, and speaks soothing 
words of consolation to her op- 

pressed sous; while in all, he pours 
forth a spirit of pure patriotism for 
his dear island home. 

One of the most famous of those 
melodies commemorating the val- 
iant chieftains of Ireland is that en- 
titled, "Remember the Glories of 
Brien the Brave." The author full 
of martial fire exhorts his country- 
men not to forget the gallant son 
of the "Emerald Isle," who fell with 
sword in hand while battling for 
right and libertv. 

Remember the glories of Brien the brave, 

Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; 
Tho' lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, 

He returns to Kinkora no more. 
That star of the field, which hath so often pour'd 

Its beam on the battle, is set; 
But enough of its glory remains on each sword, 

To light us to victory yet. 

In the first part of each stanza he 
exposes the facts, in the second part 
he draws his conclusions, and in 
smooth and refined diction tells 
how nobility urges us on to heroic 
courage in the cause of freedom. 
In another poem of quite a different 
nature, entitled "The Harp That 
Once Through Tara's Halls," he 
weeps over his unfortunate country, 
comparing her to the now string- 
less harp that once sounded 
through the spacious halls of Tara. 
The language, though simple, ex- 
presses very strong passion, as if 
every word were wrung from a 
heart breaking with inexpressible 
grief and sorrow. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, 

As if that soul were fled.— 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise. 

Now feel that pulse no more. 

One of the most interesting as 
well as one of the most beautiful of 
all his works, is a versified Oriental 
romance named, "Lalla Rookh." 
In picturesque descriptions of Asi- 
atic scenery, this poem is unsur- 
passed. The author in language 
rich with figures, introduces us to 
the various species of Eastern char- 
acters, especially the dreaded "Fire 
Worshippers," and fills the poem 
"with a profusion of ornament so 
thickly sown, that the effect is like 



that of some Oriental robe in which 
the whole texture is hidden beneath 
an unbroken surface of ruby and 
diamonds." He also makes us ac- 
quainted with some of the many 
strong passions, which held their 
sway over the, deluded and weak- 
minded inhabitants of the East. 

But, Moore did not confine his 
writings exclusively to poetry; 
man3 r elegant prose productions 
bear the impress of his name. His 
efforts in this undertaking- were 
equally crowned with success. The 
most famous of these works are, 
"The Sceptic," "Historv of Ire- 
land," "Life of Sheridan" and "The 
Epicurean." The latter is a beau- 
tiful Egyptian tale of the early 
Christian days, and is told in a 
most pleasing style. It opens with 
a grand description of asumptuous 
banquet, given by the Epicureans 
at Athens. Moore's lively imagi- 
nation depicts the feast in such a 
vivid manner that the reader for a 
time forgets all around him, and 
imagines he is actually witnessing 
the carousals of those ancient rev- 
ellers. Graphically, he presents to 
our view, the crowded thorough- 
fares of Alexandria, the exquisite 
scenery of the Nile, the vast plains 
of the great Egyptian desert, and 
the gigantic Pyramids, majestically 
lifting their crests far above the dis- 
mal waste of sand. 

In this work Moore plainly shows 

by the manner in which he paints 
the images and scenes of his imagi- 
nation that he wielded the pen in 
prose with as much ease as in the 
best of his poems. He has, likewise, 
proven to us that the brave sons of 
the "Emerald Isle," even in their 
thraldom, can surmount the waves 
of adversity, and wield the pen, as 
skilfully as the sword. 

Although Moore's privatelife was 
not entirely blameless, yet, he ever 
proved himself a true son of the 
Church of Rome, and a loyal citizen 
of his native land. We can truly 
say that, as a good christian sub- 
ject of Ireland, he will always be es- 
teemed, and his immortal songs 
will be sung all over the English- 
speaking world, through every age, 
as long as there exists a lover of 
music and a true Irish heart. 

John Savage writes of him thus: 
"Moore was one of the most fortu- 
nate of men in his celebrity, his suc- 
cess and freedom from those cares 
which too often beset the life de- 
voted to literature. He deserved 
his good fortune, for besides being 
eminent as a poet, he is equally en- 
titled to respect as a man, irre- 
proachable in his domestic rela- 
tions (as son, husband and father), 
of amazing industry, manly integ- 
rity and chivalric devotion to prin- 
ciple, honor and friendship." 

Graham Stafford, Phil. 


HE tale I am about to relate, 
\ albeit passing strange, hap- 
pened to myself when I was 
a boy. I remember perfectly 
how it all began. It was 
Wednesday afternoon in the 
class room, when, after a profound 
silence, the professor's stentorian 
voice was heard from his high desk: 
"Parkerson !" — Parkerson was 
unhappily my name— "if you do not 
immediately apply yourself more 

diligently to your books, 1 will have 
to resort to more forcible and effi- 
cacious means than I have been 
accustomed to use heretofore." 

"You'd better look out," whis- 
pered my desk companion, "all 
thatisGreek, and translated means 
that you're to get a whipping 
pretty soon." 

Terrified, I bent my head down 
near the book in front of me, and 
began a kind of mumbling noise 



which I hoped the tyrant, as I con- 
sidered him, would accept as study. 
However, it was otherwise, for soon 
the buzzing stillness of the class 
room was again broken, and the 
voice which I so dreaded sounded a 
second time on my ears: 

"Parkerson, I'll see you this even- 
ing after class. Come to my office 
at 8 o'clock; the prompter you are, 
the better." 

For the rest of that afternoon's 
class I was quiet enough, but I did 
not study. My mind was wholly 
engrossed with a new idea ; I could 
not stand such treatment any 
longer; no, I would carry out a 
plan I had been thinking of for 
some time — I would run away to 
sea. But first I must obtain my 
money. That vast sum of two 
dollars, which 1 had been saving 
up for some time, was in my room 
at home, for I lived scarcely three 
miles from the college, but as the 
rules of the institution forbade to 
receive any day boarders, 1 was 
only allowed to visit my parents 
on Sunday. Now, as my room was 
somewhat separated from the rest 
of the house, I thought that I 
might be able to enter it un perceived 
by the household. 

After maturing this plan in my 
mind, I jumped the wall and began 
to walk pretty fast, for it was 
already dark. The woods which I 
knew to be only one mile from ray 
house had just been entered, when I 
heard thesouudof voices approach- 
ing, and, almost scared out of my 
wits, I began to climb a tree which 
stood near by and somewhat apart 
from the rest. I had hardly swung 
myself on the first limb when sev- 
eral men issued from the opposite 
side and to my consternation 
camped under the very tree in which 
I was ensconced. Very soon they 
built a fire and the smoke coming 
up through the branches almost 
stifled me, but I resolved to grin 
and bear it, and after the fire was 
fairly ablaze I experienced some 
slight relief. 1 was beginning to 

feel somewhat at ease, but not by 
any means enjoying the situation, 
when an abrupt end was put to my 
peace of mind, for the men below 
me entered into a conversation and 
it was not long before the dreadful 
conviction dawned upon me that 
they were a band of robbers. 

You must remember that this 
happened over sixty years ago, and 
the country being then very thinly 
settled, desperate men could with 
impunity band for purposes of 

I trembled in every limb from 
fear, and was almost falling from 
the tree, when a sudden volume of 
smoke ascended into my face as I 
looked downward, and compelled 
me, after desperate but futile efforts, 
to cough. 

The nien, levelling their guns, 
ordered me todescend immediately. 
I scrambled down as fast as pos- 
sible, nearly breaking my neck in 
my haste. 

The robbers, after some question- 
ing and discussion, resolved to 
place me in a large barrel which 
was lying near, and having done 
so, they securely fastened on the 
top, and as 1 could hear from the 
inside, immediately took their de- 

Perhaps half an hour elapsed be- 
fore I heard a sound ; then some- 
thing approached the barrel, and 
as I applied my eye to the bunghole 
for investigation, I saw a wolf 
prowling cautiously around the 
dying embers of the fire, which still 
gave light enough for me to distin- 
guish him. Presently he drew 
nearer, and, as luck would have it, 
in turning around stuck his tail 
through the bunghole; instinctively 
I grabbed it, and at once the ani- 
mal wheeled around and began to 

I held on like grim death, and 
away we went, tumbling over rocks 
and down into mud puddles. I had 
often been told that nothing on 
the land could give a person even 
the faintest idea of how a ship 



tossed in a heavy sea and of the 
appalling sickness which ensued, 
but I had always cherished the 
opinion that I would form a notable 
exception to that class of persons 
who are subject to sea sickness ; in 
short, 1 was beginning' to fancy 
myself a born sailor. But I tell 
you that after that first rock was 
struck, every resolution of ever be- 
coming a sailor was completely 
shaken out of me. And at every 
fresh bump I received I registered a 
solemn vow that if ever [should go 
upon the sea I would be perfectly 
willing to see the ship sink the mo- 
ment I put foot upon her, as a 
punishment for my foolhardiuess. 
I am sorry to say that I have not 
altogether kept that vow ; but 
then, as it was made under most 
peculiar and trying circumstances, 
I hope it was not binding. 

These thoughts occupied my 
mind for some time, but at last the 
simple idea occurred to me that if I 
wished to stop I could easily do so 
by "turning the animal loose." No 
sooner thought than done, and after 
rolling until my head was so dizzy 
that I did not know what I was do- 
ing (in fact I was not doing much 
myself, being entirely passive in 

this case, with my life in the hands, 
or rather in the staves of the bar- 
rel), I suddenly bumped against 
some obstruction and came to a 

Soon a light appeared. I could 
only see it through the bunghole, 
for the infernal barrel was as sound 
as ever, and shortly after a voice 
exclaimed directlv over mv head: 
"What in the world is that?" 

How can I picture you my feel- 
ings when I have to tell you (for I 
shall strictly adhere to the details 
of my story) that the voice I heard 
was my father's; and still less how 
can I, when, on being released from 
my barrel, I found that I was at 
the very door of my own home? I 
was immediately taken inside 
where a few cuts and bruises were 
attended to. Theu explanations 
followed, and would you believe it, 
they all doubted my words until 
the track of the barrel was shown 
them in the morning. 

I may add that I was sent back 
to school the next day, and on ac- 
count of my severe adventure and 
the intercession of my parents, I 
escaped punishment. 

S. A. Tiernan, First Gram. 


Sint alii Matrem docto qui carmine cantent, 

Et lepido plectro repetant tua munera, Virgo. 

Virgiliis doctis doctos dimitto colores. 

Sat mea Mater erit tibi carmina prima dicare, 

Injucunda quidem nulloque ornata lepore, 

Si tamen accipies munus Maria, optima matrum, 

Post flores venient, duce te, teque auspice fructus. 

H. McDonnell, Rhet. 


O ffl 



Book VI, Lines 369-503. 

Verse for verse; an attempt suggested by Matthew Arnold's " Transla- 
tions of Homer y 


ITH these words Hector of the glancing helm withdrew ; 
Anon unto his well-established house he came, 370 

But found not in its halls white-armed Andromache. 
Upon the tower with her boy and bright-robed nurse, 
Asobbing and awailing, she had taken her stand. 
So Hector, meeting not his blameless wife within, 
Turned near the threshold and the house-dames thus addressed : 375 

" Hark ye ! and to my queries, maidens, answer true, 
Whither from these halls went Andromache the fair? 
Sought she my sisters or my brothers' fair-robed wives ? 
Or hap, Minerva's shrine where all the bright-haired dames 
Of Troy now vie the dreaded goddess to appease ? " 380 

At this a busy house-dame thus in answer spake : 
" Hector, since thou dost charge us tell thee true, 
Not to thy sisters or thy brothers' fair-robed wives, 
Not to Minerva's shrine where all the bright-haired dames 
Of Troy now vie the dreaded goddess to appease, 385 

But to the lofty tower of Ilium hath she gone. 
Tidings of Trojan woe and Grecian weal arrived, 
And straightway to the walls, she flew like one distract ; 
The nurse, meanwhile, with babe in arms ran in her steps." 

So spake the dame, Quick Hector from his home returned 390 
The self-same way, adown the well-built streets. 
Crossing the wide-stretched town, on to the Scsean gates 
He strode ; through these he meant to gain the field. 
When lo ! his dear-won wife came running up to him, 
Andromache, the great Eetion's daughter fair, 395 

Eetion, who beyond thick-wooded Placus ruled, 
Placus beyond, in Thebes, Cilicia's mighty king. 
To Hector, of the brazen helm, his child he trothed. 
And so, she met him now and with her came the nurse, * 
Clasping unto her bosom the little child, the baby boy, 400 

The darling son of Hector, beaming like a star. 
Him Hector called Scamandrius, but all the folk 
Astyanax ; they Hector deemed Troy's, sole defence, 


Andromache's touching appeal. 

^ic«)OW on his boy he silent looked awhile, then smiled; 
i£t\ Meantime, Andromache, asobbing near him stood, 405 

His hand in hers she clasped, then spake and cried aloud : 
" Dear Lord, thy valor bold will prove thy doom. In thee 
No ruth doth stir nor for thy helpless babe, nor hapless me, 
That soon must needs a widow mourn ; for now the Greeks 
Will thee assail and straightway slay. O better far, that I 410 

Bereft of thee should sink down in my grave ; for ne'er 
Will comfort least be mine, but endless woe, when thou 
Art gone ; aye me, now fatherless and motherless ! 
For erst my sire by Achilles fierce was slain, 

What time Cilicia's thickly-peopled town he sacked, 415 

High-gated Thebes, and King Eetion smote ; 
Yet stripped him not; ill brooked his soul so foul a deed, 
But burnt him as he fell, in gorgeous armor clad. 
Then to him raised a mound, round which the mountain nymphs, 
Daughters of ^Egis-bearing Zeus, set weeping elms. 420 

And seven brothers mine, who dwelt within our halls, 
That selfsame day, alack, went down into Hades' realms, 
Slain, one and all, by fierce Achilles swift of foot, 
Amongst their slowly-winding herds and snow-white flocks. 
My mother erst in shady Placus reigned a queen ; 425 

Her hither midst the other spoils he captive led, 
Yet erewhile priceless ransoms took and set her free. 
But her, in father's halls, Diana the archer pierced — 
Thou, Hector, art to me sire, fond mother, aye 

And brothers, thou, my darling husband and my all. 430 

Come, pity us, within the tower bide, nor make 
An orphan of thy child, a widow of thy wife. 
Thy men hard by yon fig tree stand, where best 
The town may be attacked, the walls most readily scaled. 
That very spot in onset fierce, thrice tried the braves, 435 

Whom lead the twain Ajaces and Idomeneus famed, 
Those scions of Atreus and Tydeus' doughty son; 
Whether one skilled in augury the spot revealed, 
Whether their instinct prompts and guides them on aright." 


O whom in answer Hector of the glancing helm : 440 

" These cares, dear wife, prove deep concern to me alike; 
Yet dread I more the men and long-robed dames of Troy, 
If from the battle', dastard-like, I skulk away, 
But most my very soul forefends, which ever taught 


To valiant prove and foremost fight in Trojan lines, 445 

Asserting thus, my father's glory and mine own. 

For of a surety, deep in my heart and soul I feel 

The day shall dawn when sacred Troy must fall 

And Priam's folk and Priam of the ashen spear. 

Yet, reck I not of Troy's impending doom 450 

Nor of Hecuba's shrieks, nor of King Priam's woes,' 

Nor of my brothers' fate, so many and so brave, 

Who soon will bite the dust, downtrod by ruthless foes, 

As for thine own deep pang, what time some mail-clad Greek 

Shall tear thee hence asobbing, reft of freedom's light. 455 

For some Greek dame, in Argos, then wilt ply the loom, 

Or from Messeis' fount or from Hypereian 

Wilt water draw, harsh-bidden and with sore constraint. 

Then haply one beholding thee in tears, will say : 

" This, once, was Hector's wife, who foremost fought amongst 460 
The horse-taming Trojans, whilst war raged round Ilium's walls." 
As thus he speaks will fresh pangs wring thy heart 
For lack of him who could this day of woe avert. 
Oh ! may a mound of earth high o'er my body rise, 
Ere I thy cries or tidings of thy thralling hear." 465 


O glorious Hector spake and towards the boy his arms 
Outstretched. Back to the bosom of the bright-robed nurse 
He screaming shrank, by his own father's aspect scared, 
Sore-frighted at the bronze and horse haired crest, 
Which he espied anodding grim the helm atop. 470 

Thereat the father laughed, the loving mother smiled. 
Then glorious Hector straightway took from off his head 
The helm, and set it down aglittering on the ground, 
Then kissed his boy, and dangling in his hands the child 
Aloft, thus spake in prayer to Zeus and all the gods : 475 

" Thou Zeus, and all ye gods, vouchsafe that this, my son 
May, e'en as I, among the Trojans foremost prove, 
Equal in valor and a mighty king of Troy ; 
So men may say: "The youth his father's prowess outstrips," 
As fresh from strife returns he home with blood-stained spoils 480 

From slain foes torn; then may his mother's heart be glad ! " 

Thus then, he spake, and in his dear wife's arms he placed 
The child. She to her fragrant bosom clasped the babe, 
Whilst through her tears she smiled. The sight her husband stirred, 



And with his hand caressing her, he spake and said : 485 

"Dear one, let not, I pray, this grief thus crush thy heart. 

No man can hurl me down to Hades 'gainst my fate ; 

For destiny, I ween, no mortal yet hath shunned, 

Valiant be he or base, when once he hath been born. 

But go now to thine halls ; there ply thy household task, 490 

The distaff and the web, and bid thy maids with zeal 

Their parts perform. To men the cares of war belong, 

And most to me of all the braves who breathe in Troy." 
So glorious Hector spake; his horse-hair crested helm 

Then took. His fond wife meanwhile homeward turned. 495 

Oft looked she back, with warm tears starting fresh. 

Anon unto the well-established house she came 

Of the man-slaying Hector ; there full many maids 

She met, and in them all loud wailing stirred. Thus they 

Within his very halls the living Hector mourned ; 500 

So little hope they kept to see him 'gain from strife 

Return alive mid fierce Achaians' thrusts and rage. 

J. Irving. 


was a sultry evening in Au- 
gust, 1770, and the sinking sun 
was struggling to pierce the 
gloom of an old attic in the 
great city of London. There, 
in the deepening shadows, sat 
a youth with his face buried in his 
hands. As a faint streak of sunlight 
streams through the dust begrimed 
window, he looks up, revealing a 
face of wonderful beauty. The fore- 
head was broad and high ; the eyes 
dark as midnight and sparkling 
like diamonds; while over the shoul- 
ders a mass of hair, sable as the 
raven's wing, fell in streaming curls. 
But starvation was* marked on 
every feature. Suddenly the youth 
rises, and walking rapidly across 
the room, stops before a small table 
covered with parchments. Long- 
ingly he looks at these, and with 
a gesture of despair tears them 
to pieces. Then he gazes around. 
None has seen him. Again he looks, 
but his eyes are now riveted upon a 

small bottle on a shelf; it bore on 
the label "Arsenic." He strides to- 
wards it and takes it in his hand. 
For awhile he dallies with the treach- 
erous vial. Then with a muttered 
cry of agony, half imprecation, half 
stifled sob, he puts it to his lips. 
A few moments pass; struggling, 
the boy falls dead upon the floor. 

Who is he that has thus rashly 
taken his life? It is a youth 
barely seventeen; yet his brow- 
is furrowed with lines, which be- 
token trouble, not age. The lifeless 
corpse before us was once Thomas 
Chatterton. Those lips, now numbed 
in death, had once uttered the 
proud words "Paint me an angel 
with wings, and in his hands a 
trumpet, with which he may trum- 
pet my name all over the world.'' 

True the name of Chatterton is 
sounded throughout the world; 
but alas, what dismal memories it 
awakes. "Genius in ruins and 
blasted hopes." Such is the sad 



refrain. Let us glance at the poor 
boy's history and learn the lessons 
it teaches. 

Thomas Chatterton was born in 
the picturesque old town of Bristol, 
November 20th, 1752. His father, a 
teacher at a free school, died before 
the birth of the future poet. His 
mother,on the death of her husband, 
opened an humble milliner's shop 
and strove to earn through her ef- 
forts a living and an education for 
her family. 

At the age of five, Chatterton 
was sent to a charity school, but 
whether the teachers were incom- 
petent and careless or the pupil dull 
and lazy, he was there two years 
without mastering the alphabet. 
At the end of this period , the teacher 
reported him to his mother as a 
hopeless dunce. But better teachers 
and guides were to be found. About 
this time the child happened to lay 
his hands on an old book with gilt 
illuminated letters, and he was 
never tired of admiring it. This 
suggested to his mother a plan for 
teaching him his letters. She 
happened to have an old family 
Bible in the black letter type, used 
in the earlier stages of printing and 
she contrived to teach him his 
letters from this. The boy made 
rapid progress, and henceforward 
reading became a passion and a de- 
light. When he was eight, this re- 
markable genius had read every 
book within his reach and stored 
his young miud with the most 
varied knowledge. He afterwards 
went to a free school in his native 
town and had for his teacher a man 
by the name of Phillips, a scholar 
of strange tastes and ways but gen- 
tle and kind, and a contributor 
for the newspapers. Between him 
and Chatterton there sprang up a 
lasting friendship. 

The old church of St. Mary's at 
Bristol, when our poet's father was 
living, contained some chests of 
cast-away deeds and manuscripts. 
These being broken open, the im- 
portant documents were taken out 

and the remainder being of no value, 
the father of our poet carried some 
of them home, where he used them 
for covering books. A large quan- 
tity was stowed away, and Chatter- 
ton who had already dabbled in 
poetry happened to find them. 
They struck a responsive chord in 
his heart. He mastered their con- 
tents, and strove to imitate their 
quaint language and spelling, their 
style and mannerisms. He car- 
ried all he could find to a deserted 
lumber room and ever afterwards 
kept the key on his person, guard- 
ing it as a miser does his gold. 

All his leisure moments were spent 
in poring over these manuscripts. 
It was here he conceived the idea of 
those forgeries which have rendered 
his name famous. Now and then, 
but always keeping his secret, he 
published accounts and descriptions 
of events of Bristol in the olden 
days, copies, he said, of originals 
recently discovered. In October, 
1768, he sent an account of the 
opening of the old bridge which had 
been, as he said, copied from an 
ancient manuscript. He gave to 
one man an account of his ancestry 
up to William the Conqueror, to 
another the ancient poem, 4k Ro- 
maunt of the Cnyghte;" to a relig- 
ious citizen a part of an ancient 
sermon on "The Divinity of the 
Holy Spirit," written, he said, by 
Friar Thomas Rowley. These and 
several other imitations completely 
puzzled the citizens of Bristol. Chat- 
terton had no partner in his work 
but did all secretly. 

"The periodicals of the day," 
says M. F. Seymour, "alluded to 
these productions; they were dis- 
cussed by learned men of every pro- 
fession. Chatterton affirmed that 
they were transcripts compiled by 
a monk of St. Mary's monastery, 
named Rowley, and he produced 
manuscript letters, accounts of ex- 
penditures, pieces of old music and 
scraps of sermons as proofs of his 
assertions. Let us in imagination 
accompany him when, wearied after 



the toils of the day, he would await 
the hour of midnight for oue of 
his visits to the old muniment room. 
With a lantern carefully hidden 
under his cloak he speeds up the 
winding stone staircase. 

As he enters the chamber, some 
birds— disturbed but not frightened, 
for his presence has grown familiar 
—fly to and fro. He seats himself 
on one of the chests and drawing, 
from a recess in the wall, a box con- 
taining some materials for manu- 
facturing antiquities, proceeds with 
his work. 

On one such a night the lad chose 
from the fragments of parchment 
contained in the chest a piece suit- 
able for his purpose, and began 
writing on it a poem, which he had 
previously composed and rendered 
into obsolete English by the aid of 
the dictionary that he had pur- 
chased with his first earnings. He 
had manufactured for himself the 
ink necessary to the purpose; it was 
of a rusty yellowish color, and 
whatever was written with it, resem- 
bled old calligraphy. This fragmen- 
tary poem (for he never produced 
a complete manuscript) being tran- 
scribed, he crumpled the parchment, 
rubbed it over with ochre and 
other pigments, passed it above 
the liame of a lamp, and finally 
stamped upon it with his feet. 

After undergoing this process, 
the parchment had the appearance 
of a genuine antique; indeed, Chat- 
terton had become such an expert 
in the manufacture of manuscripts 
that the most competent judges 
were deceived." 

At the age of fifteen he became 
apprentice to an attorney, who 
was a very strict master. Yet, the 
boy found time for his work at 
home, and while not engaged, 
either at the office or doing some 
little act of love and devotiou for his 
mother, he was writing or reading 
these manuscripts. After some 
years of toil, he at length wrote to 
Dodsley, the London publisher, 
that he had a wonderful collection 

of the antique writings of Thomas 
Rowley, a monk of the fifteenth 
century, and a friend of Mr. Can- 
nynge, the benefactor of the Church 
of Bristol. All these writings, both 
in spelling and in printing, were a 
wonderful imitation of the old 
black letter manuscript. But he 
received no notice from the book- 
sellers and literary men of the great 
metropolis. Horace Walpole, to 
whom the poems were submitted, 
unable to decide for himself on 
their genuineness, called in the aid 
of Gray and Mason, and they pro- 
nounced them forgeries. Discour- 
aged by his failure, he resolved to 
go to London and live D3 7 his pen. 
Although no more than seventeen, 
in the spring of 1770 he came to 
the great city with high hopes and 
courage. He wrote for several 
magazines and newspapers, and at 
first met with some success; to 
such an extent, indeed, that he be- 
gan to dream of fame and fortune. 

Often he wrote glowing accounts 
to his mother of his triumphs. 
Chatterton loved his mother most 
tenderly, and frequently sent home 
money and trinkets for her and his 
sister. But, anon, the tide turned; 
he was friendless, alone in the great 
cit3 r , and was soon forgotten. His 
bright hopes faded, and he became 
dejected and crestfallen. Want 
stared him in the face, and he was 
forced to rent a room in a cheap 
boarding-house. Sleepless nights, 
days of hunger, misery and de- 
spair quickly followed. The sum- 
mer came; Chatterton was starv- 
ing. His proud, haughty spirit 
would not stoop to beg. Ah ! had 
he known how to pray. Then 
came the crisis. For three days he 
did not taste food. The landlady 
seeing his haggard mien asked him 
to dine with her, but he was too 
proud to accept. The next morn- 
ing he was found dead upon the 
floor. Poor child! unhappy, ill- 
starred Chatterton! 

After his death, a great debate 
arose whether the poems, which he 



claimed were written by Thomas 
Rowley, were his owd, or the name- 
bearer's. It was a hot contest, 
but the best authorities say they 
were forgeries* The best among his 
poems are the ballad on the "Ex- 
ecution of Sir Charles Bawdin;" 
"The Tragedy of Ella," "The Bat- 
tle of Hastings," "The Tourna- 
ment" and a "Description of Can- 
ny nge's Feast." Of these perhaps 
"Ella" is the most poetical; but, 
the "Execution of Sir Charles Baw- 
din'' has the genuine ring of an an- 
tique ballad. The story in brief 
runs as follows: King Edward 
has Charles Bawdin in prison on 
the charge of treason, and on a 
certain day the king bids Sir Can- 
terlone, one of his courtiers, tell Sir 
Charles that he must prepare for 
death. Sir Canterlone does so, and 
the captive knight, notwithstand- 
ing the tears of his wife, says that 
he longs to die and see his Creator. 
Sir Canterlone begs the king to for- 
give Bawdin, but in vain. Our 
poet thus describes the procession 
to the scaffold: 

Before him went the council men, 

In scarlet robes and gold, 
And tassels spangling in the sun, 

Most glorious to behold. 
The friars of St. Augustine next 

Appeared to the sight; 
All clad in homely russet weeds, 

Of godly monkish plight. 

In different parts a godly psalm, 

Most sweetly did they chant; 
Behind their back, six minstrels came, 

Who tuned the strange ba taunt. 
Then five and twenty archers came; 

Each one the bow did bentl, 
From rescue of King Henry's friends, 

Sir Charles for to defend. 

In the midst of the procession to 
the scene of death, walks the in- 
trepid Bawdin, who mounts the scaf- 
fold, and defying the king to do his 
worst, calmly puts his head on the 
block and is executed. 

In this ballad, Chatterton dis- 
plays a most powerful mastery of 
picturesque word-painting, which is 
his characteristic quality. Besides 

these, the hapless boy wrote several 
other minor poems which do him 
great honor, and which were pub- 
lished under his own name, viz: 
" The Elegy " which he wrote on his 
teacher, Mr. Phillips. This is an im- 
itation of Gray. 

Although Chatterton 's verses are 
sometimes boyish and crude, yet, 
if he had only patiently waited for 
brighter days, he might have 
ranked among our greatest poets. 
In his "Resignation" he displays a 
rare knowledge of God and of sa- 
cred things, but unfortunately he 
did not practice what he advised. 
Had he only been resigned, the world 
might have seen a marvellous poet. 
Pope and Cowley wrote poems at 
the respective ages of twelve and 
fifteen; those of Chatterton writ- 
ten at eleven, far excelled them. 

As we glance over the sad story 
of the boy poet's life, we are stirred 
with mingled feelings of pity and 
gloom. Poets especially have been 
deeply moved at his fate. Byron 
and Shelley, who saw in him some- 
thing of their own melancholy, 
sounded his praises; Wordsworth 
dropped a tear o'er the grave of 
him, whom he called : "The mar- 
vellous boy, the sleepless soul that 
perished in his pride." Keats dedi- 
cated "Eudymion" to his memory; 
the great French poet, Alfred de 
Vigny, made him the hero of one of 
his tragedies. 

Had Chatterton been sustained 
by noble motives, and guided by 
the light of the Christian faith, and 
not left erring and groping in dark- 
ness, the victim of his boyish ca- 
prices ; had he found a true friend 
to whisper the word of encourage- 
ment at the needed hour, England 
would not have to mourn over the 
sad death, the utter ruin of one who, 
otherwise, might have been one of 
her noblest and most gifted sons. 
John W. Luther, Poet. 



Pizairo dying, with the blood ebbing from Ms wound, traced 
on the ground the sign of the cross and kissed it devoutly. 

— Prescott. 

fIZARRO, stern and haughty was thy soul, 
And restless as the surging waves that roll 
By Darien's shore ! Thou man of iron mould, 
Thou hunter for the pearls and treasured gold 
Of Cuzco's mines! On history's page, thy name 
Deftly is traced in records known to fame ! 
And yet, oh ! conqueror, a deadly blight 
O'ershadows thee, and in its ebon night 
Wraps up thy banner! Child of strangest fate! 
Thou wert too cruel to be truly great! 

Thy prowess stirs my soul, brave cavalier ! 
But hark! in Cuzco's fated walls I hear 
The wail of conquered tribes, and piercing cries 
Of orphaned children echoing to the sighs 
Of crazed Peruvian mothers as they weep 
O'er forms beloved, now stark in endless sleep! 
Thine! Thine the deed, Francisco ; see 
The Inca's shade arise ; it curseth thee, 
And brand's thy banner with the crimson stain 
Of murder done, for hope of sordid gain! 

But lo! when thou didst fall beneath the blows 
Of rebel soldiery and traitor foes, 
Loudly thine own heart's blood for mercy sued. 
Then traced thy hand the sign of Holy Rood 
Therewith and thou didst kiss the mark ! Thy faith 
Hushes our blame o'er thy departing wraith. 
Faith prompted thy last deed, and in yon sky, 
Perchance did shrive thee in the all seeing eye 
Of Him, whose name thou uttered'st aloud 
Ere Death enclosed thee in its darkling shroud. 

B. Farrell. 

I -* . 




. i. 

NFURL the sails," the hero cried, 

" Unfurl them to the breeze, 
And let our good ships onward glide, 
Ye toilers of the seas," 


He said; and from Iberia's shore 

He sailed far, far away; 
No fleet such heroes ever bore, 

As sailed from Spain that day. 


Days went, days came, and still his keel 

Ploughed o'er the waters blue ; 
'Midst surging waves and tempest's reel 

The Pinta onward flew. 


" Back," cried the guardians of that pathless deep, 

As they gazed on the white caravel ; 
" Back," cried the monsters in their watery steep ; 

Echoed, "back," the demons in hell. 

"Back," cried the wearied, the coward, the faint, 

" Drag us not to a watery grave." 
He heard not the curse — he heard not the plaint 

His proud galley swept on o'er the wave. 


c< Onward," he cried. "O men of Spain! 

Mid portents dire, 

And flashing fire, 
Spread o'er and o'er the shadowy main." 
''Onward," he cried, "what boots the toil 

The cark and moil 
Of these, our worn and drudging hands ! 

Fair happy lands 

Await us. Onward, then ! 

Alone we sail not. Men 

Of Palos ! God is here. 
God is our pilot, men of Palos, do not fear ! " 



Live leaped the lightnings in serried array, 

Loud o'er the mere, and far muttered the thunder, 

High tossed the foam, and on high dashed the spray, 
Loud churned the sea, the frail caravels under. 


The seamen affrighted sank on their knees, 
Alone he despaired not, the staunch Genoese. 

He gazed aloft on the dark, lurid skies ; 
He gazes aloft till fatigue shuts his eyes. 


Then sees he, in dream, away in the West, 
The goal of his wanderings, the haven of rest. 

Oh ! fair is the land, oh ! bright gleam the isles, 
The waves of the sea are wreathed in smiles. 


Broad lies the land and bright, the valleys gleam 
With sparkling gems, and gold, and precious ore. 
Its mountains flaunt their rock-girt, snowy crests 
E'en to the gates of morn. A hundred lakes 
Like silver pearls strewn o'er a grassy lawn 
All inland sparkle ; mighty rivers rush 
Exulting down to meet the sounding sea ; 
And virgin forests rear their leafy piles 
Of verdant colonnades across the land. 
While wave-like o'er the plains tall grasses sway, 
Like crested surf before the winter's blast. 
A harmless race roams o'er the wide expanse ; 
But ah ! they know not Christ. But lo ! again 
He looks, and in his dream he sees 
The dauntless sons of Guzman, and of him 
Who wounded fell upon the shattered breach 
Of Pampeluna's walls, bearing tidings glad, 
And bringing Christ to them that knew Him not. 


Again he looks — a thousand cities rise, 
Beauteous and fair, before his wondering eyes. 
While southward Spaniards rule, another race 
Northward the sceptre bears, in ways, in face, 

In speech like unto those, 

Whom Britain calls her own ; 
But hardier yet, and sturdier grown, 

Like iron 'neath repeated blows. 


By these his own immortal name 

Is written large upon the scroll of fame ; 

Columbia's sons their names shall be, 
• The synonym of priceless liberty. 


But hark ! he hears the song, the hymn 
Loud pealing in the chancel dim. 
He sees the priest before the altar stand, 
He sees him raise his wonder-working hand, 

And bless the kneeling throng. 

Loud bursts the song 

Hosannah ! while above 

Glitters the Sign of Love, 

The cross. Beside it waves 
A flag. The westering sun's ray laves 
It in splendor, while the gleaming stars 
Glint down in beauty on the crimson bars. 


In bright array, he sees before him pass 

A noble throng of sages, warriors bold, 

The guides, the rulers of his new-found World. 

One towers above the rest; godlike in mien he walks. 

And stately, as beseems the nation's guide. 

All bow before him as he comes ; then loud 

The shout, " O Father of our country hail ! ! ! " 


More had he seen, but hear ! 
'Tis, 'tis the sailor's ringing cheer : 
"Land, land," he cries, 
And there, before his eyes 
Appears the verdant shore. The hero leaps 
In joy, with gladness weeps 
That wizard land to see. "To God the praise." 
He cries, and stays 
The flowing tears. 
Loud burst the cheers, 
Loud booms the cannon's roar. 
" O men of Spain, despond no more : 

San Salvador ! San Salvador! " 



%&n T?' ^ 

/ X fQrtS 

is n 




aJJ^HIS great poet, called by his 
Hyj admirers the Shakespeare of 
&8&J Spain, was born in Madrid, 
on the first of January, 
1601. His father, a gentle- 
man who had been closely 
connected with the financial depart- 
ment of the Spanish government 
during the reign of Philip IT, died 
before the future poet was nine 
years of age, leaving him the sole 
heir of a princely fortune. The 
foundations of his vast knowledge 
and sincere piety were laid by him 
at the college of the Jesuit fathers, 
in his native city, and later on at 
the university of Salamanca. 

Even when a student, and scarcely 
fifteen years of age, young Pedro 
produced his first play, "El Carro 
del Cielo." Several others followed 
in quick succession. These at once 
secured the favor and admiration 
of the greater part of the eminent 
men and literarv critics of the dav. 
In 1619 he left" the peaceful halls 
and shady retreats of Salamanca 
and soughtemployment amidst the 
busy scenes of the court, where his 
services were accepted gladly and 
without delay. Not even here" how- 
ever, did he allow his pen to be idle, 
and Lope de Vega, at that time 
Spain's greatest living poet, ad- 
mired and praised the poetical 
genius of young Calderon, and saw 
that a new star was rising, whose 
lustre might possibly dim the 
brightness of his own. Having 
joined the royal troops, Calderon 
served in Italy and Flanders, evinc- 
ing as much courage and intrepid- 
ity on the field, as wealth and 
boldness of imagination in the cab- 
inet. On the death of Lope, ten 
years later, Philip IV recalled him 
to Madrid and uavehim the honor- 
able position of superintendent of 
the royal theatres and festivals. 

This post he did not long retain. 
His country, then one of the lead- 
ing states of Europe, required his 
services, and he cheerfully answered 
the call. The following year he was 

made a knight of Santiago and 
fought in the memorable campaign 
of Catalonia, remaining in the field 
till 1641, when a treaty of peace 
was concluded. 

The king, aware of the great 
genius of @alderon, gave him a pen- 
sion of thirty gold crowns a month; 
restored him to the office he had 
held before; destined him exclusively 
to write and produce his plays, and 
ordered the expenses of publishing 
them in the most costly and ele- 
gant style, to be borne by the royal 

Now, it was that he began to give 
to the world those masterly dramas 
so inimitably blended with the lof- 
tiest precepts of Christian morality. 
Calderon's name will be forever first 
in the list of Catholic poets. Then 
too, what Shakespeare did for the 
English language, Calderon did for 
his native tongue. Nay, more; 
Shakespeare "moulded the elements 
of English for the first time into one 
harmonious whole;" Calderon, be- 
sides, saved the Spanish tongue 
from the vulgarity into which it 
had degenerated, and which, but 
for him, would have inevitably 
ended in its complete ruin. It is a 
remarkable fact, that in the works 
of Lope, Gongora, Quevedo and 
other contemporary authors, the 
bombastic and the sublime, the 
vulgar and the noble are so inter- 
mixed in the same composition, that 
the reader is incapable, many a 
time, to analyze the impression 
made by the perusal of some pass- 
ages. The contagion of this deplor- 
able evil was rapid, and the lan- 
guage was perceptibly falling into 
corruption. From this, Calderon 
rescued it. He gave the stirring 
and lofty thoughts of his great 
soul that sublimity of expression 
which characterizes him, and places 
his name so high on the roll of the 
world's greatest singers and bards. 
His Christian spirit, clearly visible 
in all his productions, contributed 
not a little to secure him the love of 



that country, Catholic par excel- 
lence, and his unbounded success is, 
in a great measure, due to it. No 
wonder then, that the Spaniards lav- 
ished upon their favorite every 

In 1651 the great poet solicited 
and obtained permission from the 
order of Santiago, to center the 
ranks of the priesthood, an honor 
to which he had long aspired, thus 
making even more evident the sin- 
cerity of his religious enthusiasm. 
His talents could not fail to procure 
for him a prominent position in the 

In 1653 he was appointed chap- 
lain at the Cathedral of Toledo, 
and ten years later promoted to the 
royal chapel of Madrid. Hebeeame, 
about the same time, a member of 
the Order of St. Peter, and, after a 
short interval was raised to the 
dignity of "Capellan Mayor" by his 
brethren. He died in Madrid, on 
the 28th of May, 1681; bequeath- 
ing his considerable fortune to the 
above named brotherhood. 

The poet-priest's popularity had 
gradually spread from the nobility 
and clerg3 r to the lower classes of 
the people. On his death, therefore, 
he was universally mourned, and 
the event was considered as a 
national disaster. This great man's 
last petition was to be interred 
humbly and with the greatest pos- 
sible simplicity in the church of San 
Salvador, and his wishes were punc- 
tually executed. But, this could 
not satisfy the people, and the fun- 
eral had to be celebrated a second 
time with greater pomp; while out- 
ward tokens of respect and venera- 
tion for the memory of the poet 
were being publicly given in Lisbon, 
Naples, Milan and Rome. 

On the 19th of April, 1841, his 
body was removed to the cemetery 
contiguous to the Atocha Sanctu- 
ary, There, in sight of his mortal 
remains, a magnificent monument 
was erected in his honor by his 
grateful countrymen. 
Calderon never ceased from his 

fifteenth year to write and produce 
plays; he wrote "Hado y Divisa" 
after he had reached his eightieth 

His fertile imagination never 
failed to supply the most striking 
and ingenious plots; his inventive 
power was unlimited. But what 
displays more manifestly his truly 
artistic and dramatic genius is his 
unequalled faculty of arranging the 
most startling stage effects. This 
last, according to many, furnishes 
the chief and most reliable proof of 
his vivacity of mind. 

In Calderon, Spanish poetry 
reached the summit of purity and 
perfection. He so admirably com- 
bined the soft and flexible language 
of that Latin race, with harmony 
of expression, that the bare reading 
of most of his works at once 
awakens in us the remembrance of 
the sweetest music. In fact, so re- 
sistless is this charm that Spain's 
best composers have deemed it the 
highest honor to "marry their 
strains to his immortal verse." 

More than two centuries have 
elapsed since he first put his 
plays on the stage, and still they 
continue to be as popular and as 
warmly applauded in Spain, as on 
their first appearance. If this were 
the only argument to be brought 
in favor of the poet, it would suffice 
to give ample proof of his great- 
ness; but it is not all. His works 
have been translated into English, 
French, German and Italian. Dry- 
den in England, Thomas Corneille 
in France have not disdained to imi- 
tate him. With the Germans es- 
pecially, Calderon is a great favor- 
ite. Augustus William Schlegel 
says: "His poetry, whatever its 
object may apparently be, is an in- 
cessant hymn of joy on the majesty 
of the creation ; he celebrates the 
productions of nature and human 
art with an astonishment always 
joyful and always new, as if he saw 
them for the first time in an un- 
known splendor. It is the first wak- 
ing of Adam, coupled with an elo- 



quence and skill of expression, with 
a thorough acquaintance with the 
most mysterious relations of 
nature, such as high mental culti- 
vation and mature contemplation 
can alone give. When he compares 
the most remote, the greatest and 
the smallest, stars and flowers, the 
sense of all his metaphors is the 
mutual attraction of created things 
to oue another on account of their 
common origin; and this delight- 
ful harmony and unity of the world 
is again with him merely a reful- 
gence of the eternal love, which em- 
braces the universe." 

Calderon's plays have been the 
inspiration of many a bard, who 
has tried to imitate him; but, as 
has already been remarked, he is 
matchless and inimitable in his 
style. It resembles no other. 

Calderon's dramatic productions 
may be divided into three classes: 
Those called sacramental autos 
come first. These are charming out- 
door plays for Corpus Christi and 
other feasts of the church. They 
are principally allegorical poems, 
tastefully developing national and 
scriptural events and stories. Not 
unfrequently, a love story and 
moral passages are introduced, 
thus rendering them pleasing even 
to the most exigent critical taste. 
The most popular of them, among 
seventy, is "El Divino Orfeo." 

Fifteen are classified as religious 
and miracle plays. A remark must 
be made about these. Their name 
originally sprang from the fact that, 
to avoid the restraint imposed on 
theatrical performances at the time 
of their publication in Spain, they 
were so called by their author. Of 
the former, the "Purgntorio de San 
Patricio," founded on the legend of 
the Irish Saint, and the "Devocion 
de la Cruz" are equally famous. 
Amongst the latter, preference 
has been given to "El Magico 
Prodigioso," founded on the story 
of St. Cyprian of Carthage. 

The only difference between the 
third and the preceding classes is 
that the last does not claim to be 
strictly religious in tone and treat- 

ment. Their number is unknown, 
but it has been ascertained that 
one hundred, to say the least, were 
given to Spanish literature by the 
fertile pen of the great Catholic 

They are subdivided into trage- 
dies, dramas, comedies, melodramas 
and some beautiful operas like "La 
Purpura de la Rosa;" a lovely ver- 
sion of one of Ovid 's metamorphoses 
In foreign countries the best 
known, and perhaps the most ad- 
mired of this kiud is, "El Principe 

Among the plays, in which the 
human passions are brought before 
us perhaps in more vivid relief, 
are: "Amar Despuesde la Muerte;" 
"El Pintor de su Deshoura," and 
thegrandestof all, "El Mayor Mon- 
struo los Zelos," "No Monster like 
Jealousy". It has often been a 
subject of discussion whether 
Shakespeare's Othello is superior 
to this last named play. Many are 
not ashamed to declare for the 
Spaniard against the Briton. 
Lastly, but certainly no less honor- 
able to the author, come the come- 
dies of cloak and dagger, "Come- 
dias de Capa y Espada." Though 
seemingly insignificant and un- 
worthy to be compared with his 
greater works, they doubtless do 
him as much houor as the former, 
because they are an eloquent proof, 
that Calderon was as well qualified 
to be a humorist, as a moralist and 
philosopher. "La Dama Duende," 
"The Fairy Lady", shines con- 
spicuously among these, and it was 
acknowledged by Calderon to be his 
masterpiece. The most popular, 
however, is "El Astrologo Fingido." 

In a word, Calderon, among the 
dramatic poets, is second to Shake- 
speare alone. Of course, he is not 
without faults, but who has ever 
been perfect? He shared, though in 
a smaller degree, the weaknesses of 
his contemporaries. He is often 
found exaggerated and obscure. 
Sometimes his ideality is too far 
above the ordinary limitsof poetry 
to be easily comprehended. At other 
times he is coarse and bombastic. 



But, la order to give a clearer view 
of Calderon's defects and good 
qualities, let us conclude with the 
words of Ticknor, who, in his His- 
tory of Spanish Literature, says: 
"In carrying out his theory of the 
Spauish drama, Calderou, as we 
have seen, often succeeds, and often 
fails. But, when he succeeds, his 
success is sometimes of no common 
character. He then sets before us 
only models of ideal beauty, per- 
fection and splendor,— a world, he 
would have it, into which nothing 
should enter but the highest ele- 
ments of the national genius. There, 
the fervid, yet grave enthusiasm of 
the old Castilian heroism, the chi- 
valrous adventures of modern, 
courtly honor, the generous self- 
devotion of individual loyalty, and 
the reserved but passionate love 
which, in a state of society where it 
was so rigorously withdrawn from 

notice, became a kind of unackowl- 
edged religion of the heart, all seem 
to find theirappropriatehome. And 
when he has once brought us into 
this land of enchantment, whose 
glowing impossibilities his own ge- 
nius has created, and has called 
around him forms of such grace and 
loveliness as those of Clara and 
Dona Angela, or heroic forms like 
those of Tuzani, Mariamne, and 
Dou Ferdinand, then hehas reached 
the highest point he ever attained, 
or ever proposed to himself; he has 
set before us the grand show of an 
idealized drama, resting on the 
purest and noblest elements of the 
Spanish national character, and 
one which, with all its unquestion- 
able defects, is to be placed among 
the extraordinary phenomena of 
modern poetry." 

L. G. Morphy, First Com. 


(^^OWARDS the middle of the 
vm$% thirteenth century, the city 
&&r of Pisa in Italy was ruled by 
Count Ugolino, a man re- 
markable for his bravery, 
but still more for his ava- 
rice. This latter vice was destined 
to prove his ruin and to bring him 
to an early and ignominious grave. 
We are then in Italy; let us there- 
fore look around us for a moment, 
and view the fair scenes for which 
that sunny land is so famous. But, 
alas! what an unexpected sight 
meets our gaze. The trees are with- 
ered, the plants are dead, all seems 
desolate. It is a time of famine. 
Men, women and children walk list- 
lessly through the streets in search 
of food. But the avaricious count 
saw here a golden opportunity of 
gratifying his ruling passion. He 
had gathered together and stored 
up all the grain he could procure in 
order to command a very high 
price for it during the famine. The 

inhabitants heard of this and their 
rage knew no bounds. Thereupon 
a meeting wassecretly held, and the 
conclusion was this: the castle was 
to be stormed, the count seized and 
doomed to a death of hunger. 

The night was cold, the wild waves 
dashed angrily against the rocky 
shore, while the bleak wind whistled 
over the dark flood. Count Ugo- 
lino with his two sons— aged ten 
and twelve respectively— are sitting 
in the hall of thecastle by a blazing- 
tire. Suddenly distant voices are 
heard—then hurrying footsteps- 
fin ally a crash— and the massive 
gates of the castle give way, and an 
infuriated mob pours in. They seize 
the count and his two sons and 
drag them to the foot of a dark 
tower. Mounting the stairs they 
reach a stone cell, situated at the 
very top. Into this they thrust the 
unhappy father and his children and 
withdraw. No one can picture the 
agony of that father when he heard 



the massive door shut and the pon- 
derous bolts grate harshly in their 
sockets. The footsteps soon died 
away and all was still save the 
sighing sea and howling wind. 

The cell in which the count and 
his boys were confined towered one 
hundred feet above the ground. 
The walls, floor and ceiling were 
of massive grey stones. No human 
being could escape from that cell. 
A rescue was equally hopeless, for 
the keys of the dungeon were now- 
lying at the bottom of the Arno. 
The brave count, however, was not 
afraid to meet death in its ordinary 
forms, but the terrible fate that 
now awaited him and his two sons 
unmanned his courage. "My God! 
My God!" he cried, and then fell de- 
spairingly to the floor. 

Morning dawned and the count 
awoke, or recovered from his swoon. 
The first object to greet his sight 
was the walls and ceiling of the lit- 
tle cell. "Papa, why do they keep 
us in here?" asked' the youngest 
boy. "Papa, dear papa, do not cry, 
they will not hurt us; will they, 
papa?'' The count burying his face 
in his hands wept bitterly, but 
could find no answer. 

Night fell once more dark, and 
windy. The sea was in the same 
state as the preceding night. The 
count listened. No other sound could 
be heard. Putting his mouth close 
to the door, he shouted loud and 
long; then listened, but no reply 
was heard ; again he shouted. Ah ! 
is that not an answer? No; only the 
wind howling and hissing as if to 
mock his agony. 

Crouched in one corner of the cell, 
t.hecount waited. Hunger and thirst 

were quickly doing their work as 
the count's glassy eye and sunken 
cheek testified. At short intervals, 
the plaintive word "water," "Papa, 
please, some water," came more 
and more faintly from the children 
in the opposite corner. But the un- 
happy father could do nothing, 
either for himself or for his sons. 

Two long days dragged slowly on. 
What pangs, what fearful agonies 
they suffered, who can tell? To- 
wards midnight of the third, the 
count fell into a deep slumber, or 
rather stupor. When he awoke it 
was morning. With the little 
strength left him, he managed to 
drag his wasted form to his chil- 
dren, but only to find the youngest 
one dead. Imagine if you can the 
father's grief. He tore his hair and 
raved like a madman until he fell 
to the floor exhausted. He re- 
mained in that position all day, 
moaning and crying out "water, 
water." As night came on, he awoke 
from his stupor and listened. 

The night was wild and dark. The 
wind howled and shrieked around 
the tower; the wild waves dashed 
against each other and lashed 
themselves into foam. 

The dying count half tottered, 
half crawled over to his second son, 
but only to find that he too was 
stiff and cold. For a moment his 
manly tears fell silently to the 
pavement, then suddenly by a su- 
preme effort he raised himself to a 
standing position; his eyes gleamed 
wildly. Hark! one despairing cry 
resounds far and wide across the 
dark waters as Count Ugolino falls 
by the side of his sons, dead. 

J. P. Boagni, First Gram. 



qTjyHF road which the classical 
mwS) student has to travel is, uu- 
<WP doubtedly, a rough and te- 
dious one; still, in this, as in 
all other pursuits, earnest 
and persevering efforts sel- 

dom fail to be rewarded. For there 
lie hidden under the thorny cover- 
ing of Latin and Greek idioms, per- 
fect gems of thought and real treas- 
ures of information, the discovery 

and knowledge of which afford no 



little enjoyment. To commune with 
the master intellects and to breathe 
the atmosphere of by-gone ages and 
distant climes, is, indeed, no ordin- 
ary privilege — the privilege of the 
classical student. 

Now, among these treasures of 
classic lore, it is doubtful if any are 
more attractive, or more deserving 
of study, than the Anabasis of Xen- 
ophon. It is, as we know, an ac- 
count by an eye witness of the Ex- 
pedition of Cyrus the lounger 
against his brother, Artaxerxes, 
King of Persia; and of the subse- 
quent adventures of the Greek force 
who had enlisted iu his service. The 
title, it may be noticed, fails to em- 
brace the whole or even the most 
important part of the subject. Yet 
there is no doubt that few, if any, 
historical episodes, both in Ancient 
and Modern times, possess an inter- 
est equal to that of the Anabasis. 

For, on the one side, we see a 
voung, brave and ambitious prince 
devise and execute one of the boldest 
schemes ever planned — the invasion 
of a might} 7 empire — only to perish 
a victim to his rash enterprise. 
On the other, we behold an intrepid 
band of Greeks penetrate with him 
into the heart of an unknown coun- 
try , and after putting to flight hosts 
of barbarians and struggling with 
untold and countless difficulties, 
successfully cut their way back to 
their homes amid the rigors of win- 
ter, through fifteen hundred miles 
of land swarming with armed foes, 
bristling with rugged mountains, 
and everywhere intersected by deep 
and rapid streams; without pro- 
visions,money or friends— in a word, 
with no other resource but their 
undaunted valor, their trusty 
swords, and their love of liberty 
and fatherland. 

No wonder that for centuries, the 
"Retreat of the Ten Thousand" 
stood without a parallel iu milita- 
ry annals. Our age, it is true, has 
witnessed a similar exploit ; but it 
may well bedoubtedif "Napoleon's 
Retreat from Moscow" was planned 

with greater skill, or conducted 
with greater prudence; certainly it 
was not attended with as much suc- 
cess, for, unlike that of the "Ten 
Thousand," it bore the appearance 
rather of a rout than of a triumphal 

Such, then, is the theme of the 
Anabasis— stirring and romantic 
enough even for our modern taste. 
The enterprise was indeed criminal 
as well as unfortunate; the hero 
little better than a traitor — yet, as 
in the case of many another rebel- 
lion, our sympathy, almost in spite 
of ourselves, goes out wholly to the 
weaker and bolder party. 

The Anabasis is historically im- 
portant, because it is fraught with 
valuable information not only with 
regard to this memorable episode 
of Greek and Persian history, but 
also about Greek manners, the 
geography of hitherto unknown 
countries, the character of their in- 
habitants, and above all, the actual 
state of the Persian Empire. Be- 
fore the expedition of Cyrus and the 
publication of the Anabasis, the 
Greeks had quite an exaggerated 
and imperfect idea of the extent 
and power of Persia. But the en- 
terprise and the book, by revealing 
to the world the great superiority 
of the Greeks over the Persians, 
opened to the former the road to 
Babylon, and suggested the idea as 
well as the possibility of conquest. 
In fact, we may say that Alex- 
ander's subsequent campaigns and 
victories, were but the natural and 
logical result of the Anabasis. 

In a literary point of view, the 
Anabasis is also a standard work, 
a masterpiece of its kind, only sur- 
passed in classic literature by the 
incomparable Commentaries of 
Csesar. The book does not derive 
its interest and its merit from the 
subject alone, but, also, from the 
writer's graphic method, delicate 
humor and artistic diction. No one 
could have been found better quali- 
fied than Xenophon to write such 
a book ; not only because the sub* 



ject was well suited to his peculiar 
bent of mind, but, also, because he 
had been an eye witness, and, to a 
great extent, the very soul of the 
events which he relates. So promi- 
nently, in fact, does the author's 
personality stand out through his 
entire work, that we can hardly 
conceive how any doubt could have 
been raised about the authorship 
of the Anabasis. 

S. Tiernan, First Gram. 


Cyrus, as 
naturally occupies the first 
rank. In the ninth chapter 
of the First Book, Xeno- 
phon has drawn a bright picture of 
his hero, carefully excluding every 
blemish which might obscure the 
beauty of its outlines. After mak- 
ing due allowance for the admirer's 
partiality, the reader must confess 
on the evidence of undeniable facts, 
that Cyrus was gifted by nature 
with talents of a superior order, 
and that he was not altogether un- 
worthy of the name of his illustri- 
ous ancestor, well known in history 
as Cyrus the Great. 

Cyrus the Younger, was the sec- 
ond son of Darius, surnamed No- 
thus, and his wife Pary satis. He 
was born about the year 424 B. C, 
a few months after his father's ac- 
cession to the throne of Persia, a 
circumstance which, as will be no- 
ticed later, influenced his subsequent 
career and partly justified his re- 
bellion against his elder brother 
Artaxerxes. As a child, he evinced 
an unusual precocity, and even 
gave unmistakable evidence that a 
thirst for glory would be the ruling 
passion of his life. He could brook 
no rival, and would strive to sur- 
pass his youthful companions in 
both mental and physical accom- 
plishments, until success had 
crowned his efforts. Fond of hunt- 

ing, riding and other manly sports, 
he displayed an uncommon skill in 
all of them. On one occasion he was 
attacked by a bear. Scorning to fly 
before a brute, he stood to meet his 
adversary. In the encounter, he 
was thrown from his horse and se- 
verely wounded, but finally succeed- 
ed in dealing a deadly blow to his 

These exterior accomplishments 
were greatly enhanced by a 
rare docility of character, a great 
diligence in the discharge of duty, 
a scrupulous fidelity to his word, 
and most engaging manners. It is 
not surprising, therefore, that his 
father should have committed to 
him the government of three im- 
portant provinces of Lesser Asia, 
before he had completed his eigh- 
teenth year. Nor was he disap- 
pointed in his expectations. Con- 
trary* to the practice of those who 
look upon such dignities as a road 
to fortune and independence, and 
make light of the obligations which 
they entail, young Cyrus was never 
known to subordinate the good of 
his subjects to his own pleasure or 
advantage. Under his wise govern- 
ment, property became secure, in- 
dustry and agriculture flourishing, 
intercourse and travel safe, and the 
laws respected ; Cyrus, himself, set- 
ting the example of probity, good 
faith and strict justice in all his 

Few men ever excelled him in the 
art of making and preserving valu- 
able friends. His liberality towards 
them was unbounded and full of del- 
icacy. It was his custom to dis- 
tribute among them the numerous 
presents which he received, being 
convinced that the greatest orna- 
ment of a prince consists in adorn- 
ing and enriching those who serve 
him faithfully. His generosity, how- 
ever, was always discerning, and 
merit alone was rewarded. Hence, 
it has been remarked of him that 
he was the best served as well as 
most beloved of masters; and whilst 
fearing to offend him, his subjects 


were all ready to risk their fortune 
and their lives in his service. 

The readiness with which his ap- 
peal to arms was answered is a 
striking proof of his popularity and 
ascendency over men; but this be- 
longs to the story of the Anabasis 
and will be told elsewhere. Itwas also 
noticed that while many deserted 
the king to join Cyrus, only one at- 
tempted to betray him; and this, 
not through spite or disaffection, 
but for selfish motives. Again, it 
will be seen that when Cyrus fell 
mortally wounded on the battle 
field of Cunaxa, many of his soldiers, 
unwilling to survive so generous a 
master, did not hesitate to seal 
their fidelity with their blood. As- 
sured^', he must be accounted a 
noble character, who could be the 
object of such disinterested and he- 
roic sacrifices. 

From this rapid and imperfect 
sketch of our hero's character, it 
will appear that although he was 
not free from the common frailties 
of human nature, still he might 
have adorned the high station to 
which he aspired. His failure and 
premature death were perhaps a 
calamity for Persia; for had he filled 
the throne of his weak and effemi- 
nate brother, the downfall of the 
Persian Empire might have been 
delayed for centuries, and Alexand- 
er's vast conquests averted. 

C. Kearns, First Gram. 


EFORE proceeding to relate 
the particulars of the expe- 
dition, it will be well briefly 
to recall the circumstances 
which led to this bold and 
unfortunate enterprise. 
Cyrus, it will be remembered, had 
been invested with the government 
of three important provinces in 
Asia Minor. Three years later, he 
was summoned to attend his 
father's death-bed. Accompanied by 
an escort of three hundred Greeks, 
he hastened to Babylon, in the hope 

of succeeding his father, to the ex- 
clusion of his elder brother Arta- 
xerxes, who was born before their 
father's accession to the throne. 
The claims of Cyrus were warmly 
advocated by his mother Pary- 
satis, whose favorite he had alwa3's 
been ; but the dying monarch would 
not consent to alter the order of suc- 
cession, and deprive his elder 
son of his birthright; and Arta- 
xerxes was proclaimed King. 

Shortly afterwards, Cyrus was 
accused of conspiring against his 
brother's life ; a sentence of death 
was passed upon him, and would 
have been immediately carried out, 
but for'the tears and prayers of his 
mother, who obtained his pardon 
and release. However, the sting of 
disgrace and disappointment only 
added a new stimulus to his ambi- 
tion, and he returned to his province 
more determined than ever to wrest 
the crown from his brother, or to 
perish in the attempt. On reaching 
Sardis, his capital, he lost no time 
in maturing his plans, and begin- 
ning his preparations. His pre- 
vious intercourse with the Greeks 
had enabled him to discover how 
far they surpassed the Persians in 
military skill, valor, discipline and 
efficiency. To avail himself of this 
knowledge by enlisting as many as 
he could of such valuable auxiliaries, 
became, therefore, the chief object 
of his endeavors. Circumstances, 
too, favored his designs. For the 
great Peloponnesian War had just 
ended, and many an experienced 
veteran and adventurer, who had 
sheathed his sword with undisguised 
regret, was found willing to resume 
the duties of his chosen profession. 

Allured by the prospect of liberal 
pay and by the fascination attached 
to the very name of Cyrus, hun- 
dreds hastened from every part of 
Greece to follow his standard. To 
avoid suspicion, and, if possible, to 
take the king by surprise, Cyrus 
had proceeded with the utmost 
secrecy. A private quarrel with a 
neighboring Satrap, Tissaphernes, 



and the supposed incursions of the 
Pisidians, were given out as the os- 
tensible objects of his armament. 
The shrewd Tissaphernes, however, 
soon penetrated his real intention, 
and hastened to Babylon to warn 
the king of his danger. 

The spring of the year 401 B. C. 
found Cyrus read y to take the field. 
At the head of one hundred thous- 
and Asiatic troops, and about 
twelve thousand Greek auxiliaries, 
he set out from Sardis, and began 
his march through Lydia, Phrygia, 
Lycaonia and Cappadocia. 

Fearing that many might be 
alarmed at the prospects of the 
dangers and hardships of so bold 
an undertaking, he had concealed 
from everyone, Clearchus alone ex- 
cepted, the real purpose of his ex- 
pedition; but he was careful to win, 
by every means in his power, 
the confidence and good will of both 
officers and soldiers. 

On reaching the northern bound- 
ary of Cilicia, he found the only pass 
by which he could gain access into 
that province, guarded by the 
troops of King Syennesis. The lat- 
ter, however, probably through 
connivance with Cyrus, or by the 
advice of his wife, who had acted as 
mediator between him and the in- 
vader, withdrew his force from the 
pass, apparently to protect the 
coast from the attacks of the fleet 
in the service of Cyrus. The army 
was thus allowed to cross the 
mountains unchallenged, and to 
pursue its march through the rich 
plains of Cilicia. Tarsus, its capi- 
tal, was soon reached, and here 
Cyrus was detained for twenty days 
by an unforeseen difficulty which 
nearly foiled all his plans. 

It was manifest that Pisidia, 
which had been passed, could not 
be the object of the expedition, and 
the Greeks resenting this evident 
imposition, began to complain 
loudly of Cyrus and their generals, 
and refused to proceed any further, 
unless they were informed of the 
true aim. When Clearchus attempt- 

ed to urge them forward against 
their will, he not only met with open 
resistance, but narrowly escaped 
being stoned to death by his own 
men. Seeing that he could gain 
nothing by his own authority, he 
had recourse to another expedient. 
Laying aside his usual sternness, 
he stood before his troops with 
tears in his eyes, and after a long 
interval of silence, he solemnly de- 
clared that he was ready to sacri- 
fice his own interests, and even to 
break the ties of friendship and 
gratitude which bound him to 
Cyrus, sooner than part with his 
countrymen. By seeming to yield, 
he thus succeeded in conciliating 
the Greeks. After deliberating to- 
gether on the best course to be pur- 
sued, they resolved to send a depu- 
tation to Cyrus, for the purpose of 
submitting to him their grievances. 
The prince, who had been secretly 
informed of the proceedings by the 
agents of Clearchus, was prepared 
to give them satisfaction without 
committing himself openly. He 
promised to raise their pay by one 
third, and the Greeks agreed to re- 
main in his service. The march was 
resumed at once, and pursued with 
all possible expedition. 

When they reached the large town 
of Thapsacus on the banks of the 
Euphrates, Cyrus thought it ad- 
visable to inform the Greeks that 
his real object was to lead them 
against his brother, and to reign 
in his place, if victory should be 
theirs. At first there was some 
murmuring, but experience had 
taught Cyrus how to silence the 
scruples and overcome the objec- 
tions of his allies. Once more a 
promise of additional pay produced 
the desired effect, and the Greeks 
were the first to cross the Euphrates. 
After marching for about a month 
along its bank, without meeting 
the least opposition, they entered 
the Babylonian territory, where it 
became necessary to proceed with 
more caution, as they began to find 
traces of the enemy, who had rav- 



aged all the country before the in- 
vaders. Expecting to be attacked 
at any moment, Cyrus held a re- 
view of his army, which was found 
to consist of thirteen thousand 
Greeks and one hundred thousand 
natives, while that of the kino- was 
reported to be ten times greater. 
But the account which Cyrus gave 
of the incapacity of his country- 
men as soldiers, together with his 
liberal promises, only redoubled the 
enthusiasm of his own troops. For 
some days, however, the enemy did 
not appear, and the followers of 
Cyrus only heard of his approach, 
when they came to the neighbor- 
hood of Cunaxa, a small village, 
near the left bank of the Euphrates, 
about fifty miles distant from 
Babylon. Here the great contest 
was to be decided. Here, too, con- 
sequently, ends the Anabasis or 
Advance. The march, exclusive of 
halts and delays, had taken ninety 
three days, and covered upwards 
of twelve hundred miles; a splendid 
record indeed, if we measure it by 
the standard of the times and the 
difficulties to be surmounted. 

F. Braud, First Gram. 


Anabasis Book I, Ch. 3. 

'IRANDUM vobis non est 
commilitoues, si prsesentem 
rerum faciem molestissime 
feram. Amicitia enimCyro 
devinctus sum, qui, prseter 
cetera benevolentise signa, 
mihi profugo trecenta millia drach- 
mas largitus est, quas neque in me 
ipsum, neque in res nugatorias, sed 
in vos ipsos, ut scitis, impendi. Im- 
primis enim, Thraces debellavi, 
quos, summo Graeciae commodo 
atque honori, vobiscum ex Cherso- 
neso depuli, cum Grrecos incolas 
fundis evertere conarentur. Hinc 
ad se statim ac Cyrus me arcessivit, 
vobiscum advolavi, ut ei, si opus- 
esset, subsidio essem, gratumque 
me pro acceptis donis praeberem. 

At quoniam amplius cum illo pro- 
gredi recusatis, non possum facere 
quin aut vos deseram, ut illius am- 
icitia perfruar, aut erga ilium per- 
fidiose agam, ut partes vestras am- 
plectar. Rectene an secus, nescio, 
attamen vos i 11 1 anteponam et 
quodcnmque evenerit, vobiscum 
libens feram. Nee ullus unquam 
enarrabit, quos in barbarorum 
regiones perduxerim, Grrecos me 
deseruisse ac ipsorum barbarorum 
amicitiam pluris fecisse. Siquidem 
obtemperare mihi, aut mecum pro- 
gredi vos nolitis, ipse labores ac 
pericula vestra perferam. Mihi 
namque, commilitones, amici, imo 
et patria estis, nee dubito quin ab 
omnibus honorifice excipiar, quam- 
diu vobiscum fuerim ; contra vero, 
si a vobis digressus, nee amicis opi 
tulari,nechostes arceremihi licebit. 
Quare id persuasum vobis demum 
sit, quocumque ipsiprofecturi sitis, 
me quoque progressurum ; et ei, 
quem vobis ducem eligere volueritis, 
me,quam quimaxime,obsecuturum. 
H. Sarpy, First Gram. 


S Cyrus' troops were nearing 
the village of Cunaxa, on 
the morning of September 
the 3d, of the year 401, B. 
C, a mounted scout came in 
at full speed, calling out, as 
he rode onward that the King was 
at hand with a vast army in battle 
array. This message caused no little 
tie alarm and confusion even among 
the Greeks, for they had been 
marching in loose order, partly 
unarmed, and still fasting, and 
hence, were quite unprepared for 
immediate action. However, they 
lost no time in forming into line. 
Leaping from his chariot, Cyrus 
was equally prompt to put on his 
armor, mount his horse, and order 
every man to his post. 

On the right, close to the river, 
he placed the Greeks with a body of 
cavalry, one thousand strong. Th e 



left wi no; was com posed of his native 
troops, under the command of the 
Persian, Ariaeus. Cyrus himself, 
with his body guard of six hundred 
picked horsemen, occupied the centre 
of his front line. In this order, the 
army began to advance, for the 
king was not yet in sight. 

They soon descried a cloud of dust 
rising in the distance; then a black 
moving mass, and finally a forest of 
spears and endless lines of armed 
men, moving' in perfect order, with 
a slow and measured step. It was 
the King's army, consisting of three 
divisions, of three hundred thousand 
men each, commanded respectively 
by Gobryas, Arbaces and Tissa- 
phernes. A fourth division of equal 
strength, under Abrocomas, did 
not arrive in time for the battle. 
The King's troops weredrawn up in 
solid squares. Tissaphernes being 
in command of the left wing, 
chanced to front the Greeks. The 
King himself, surrounded by a 
chosen body of six thousand horse- 
men, was stationed in the centre. 
Yet, such was the extent of his 
front, that he was beyond the left 
wing of Cyrus, and hence, practi- 
cally out of the field of action. 

Meanwhile, Cyrus, with his head 
uncovered and his countenance 
flushed with hope and enthusiasm, 
was observing attentively the posi- 
tion and actions of the enemy. 
Perceiving that the King was in the 
centre, he directed Clearchus to fall 
upon him by wheeliug his left 
around; for the fall of the King 
meant victory for them. But fear- 
ing to be outflanked, were he to 
withdraw from the river, the Greek 
leader held on to his first position 
and gave Cyrus an evasive answer. 

When they found themselves suf- 
ficiently close to the enemy, the 
Greeks passed the following watch- 
word : "Jupiter the Preserver and 
Victory," and amid the strains of 
their battle song and the rattling 
of their spears against their shields, 
they rushed upon the Persians. 
The latter, unaccustomed to meet 

such resolute and disciplined foes, 
turned and fled without waiting for 
the charge, and were closely pur- 
sued by the victorious Greeks, who 
had not lost a single man in the 
encounter. The King, finding that 
no one attacked him, began to wheel 
around, apparently to fall upon the 
rear of the Greeks. Perceiving this, 
Cyrus rushed upon him with his 
six hundred horsemen, and such was 
the rapidity of his onset, that the 
King's body-guard, though greatly 
outnumbering that of Cyrus, were 
thrown into disorder and dispersed. 
Presently, the two brothers were 
engaged in a deadly hand to hand 
conflict. Twice did Cyrus strike 
and wound his rival, but as he pre- 
pared to deal him another blow, 
he himself was struck by a javelin 
and fell to the ground, to rise no 
more. Eight of his most faithful 
adherents were slain upouhisbody. 
The rest of the Barbarian troops, 
dismayed by the fall of their leader, 
immediately took to flight. 

After cutting off the head and 
right hand of Cyrus, the King pur- 
sued the retreating Barbarians, 
plundered their camp, and rallying 
his troops prepared to lead them 
against the Greeks, who were now 
returning from the pursuit of his 
left wiug. The two armies again 
faced each other. The Greeks 
charged with the same ardor as be- 
fore, and with similar success. The 
enemy fled on every side, and left 
them undisputed masters of the 
field. As night was approaching, 
they returned to their camp, still 
ignorant of the fate of Cyrus, whom 
they believed engaged in pursuit of 
the enemy. To their great surprise 
and disappointment, they found 
their baggage and provisions de- 
stroyed; so that they were com- 
pelled to pass the night without 
food or shelter. 

Thus ended the battle of Cunaxa, 
in which, curiously enouah, the con- 
quered party reaped all the rewards 
of victory. Had Cyrus remembered 
his duty as a general, and refrained 



from exposing himself uu necessar- 
ily, his prudence would have won a 
crown, where his rashness found 
naught but a grave. 

G. HAxMEL, First Grain. 


ARLY in the morning which 
followed the battle, mes- 
sengers from Ariaeus came 
to inform the Greeks of the 
death of Cyrus. This unex- 
pected message was received 
with demonstrations of grief. 

Reflecting that the fall of their 
leader had put an end to the expe- 
dition, rendered their victory fruit- 
less and their situation peril- 
ous, they resolved to depart 
once, unless Ariaeus him- 
should wish to contend 
the crown of Persia, and 
employ them for that pur- 


pose. The latter, however, through 
fear of the jealousy and opposition 
of other Persian nobles, was de- 
terred from accepting this tempting 
offer, but promised to escort them 
back safely to their homes. Ac- 
cordingly, mutual pledges of friend- 
ship were exchanged, and the 
Greeks and their Barbarian allies 
set out together on their home- 
ward journey. 

Before they had proceeded far, 
a herald from the King came 
to demand the surrender of 
their arms. Such a behest from 
a conquered party to their conquer- 
ors aroused the just indignation of 
the Greeks, who replied that they 
were ready to die in defence of their 
arms, sooner thau give them up. 
This firmess had the desired effect 
on the King. Artaxerxes was, in- 
deed, loath to let this handful of 
men escape with impunity out of 
his dominions, after attempting to 
deprive him of his crown, but real- 
izing that he was powerless against 
so determined and disciplined a foe, 
he changed his tactics and sought 
to compass their ruin under the 

appearance of friendliness, by send- 
ing them a new messenger in the per- 
son of the wily Tissaphernes, to 
propose more favorable terms. 

In the name of the King, Tissa- 
phernes offered to escort the 
Greeks back to their own 
country, and to provide them 
with a market, on condi- 
dition that they should abstain 
from ravaging the country and 
plundering its inhabitants. These 
conditions were accepted and sworn 
to on both sides. After a delay of 
twenty days, during which time the 
Greeks found many opportunities 
of testing the sincerity of their new- 
allies, Tissaphernes arrived with 
his troops, and the retreat began 
in the direction of the Tigris. The 
Greeks cautiously followed their 
guides without ever camping with 
them. After crossing the Tigris, 
they continued to march along its 

As the mutual feelings of distrust 
and aversion between the Greeks 
and the Persians increased every 
day, and often betrayed themselves 
by open eucounters, Clearchus de- 
termined to have a private inter- 
view with Tissaphernes, as soon as 
they should reach the river Zab, in 
order to remove, if possible, evevy 
ground of suspicion on his side. 
Tissaphernes saw his opportunity. 
He affected to share the views of the 
Greek general, protested his own 
good faith, and concluded by invit- 
ing his guest to return next day 
with the other commanders, in 
order to cement anew their friend- 
ship. Clearchus fell into the snare. 
He persuaded four other generals, 
Proxenus, Agias, Meno and Socra- 
tes, together with twenty other 
officers and two hundred soldiers 
to accompany him to the Persian 
lines. Hardly had the generals en- 
tered the tent of Tissaphernes, 
when they were surrounded by 
armed men, put in irons and sent 
to the King, who had them 
beheaded. Meanwhile, at a given 
signal, the captains and soldiers 



who had remained outside were all 

The Greeks were utterly dis- 
heartened and dismayed when they 
were iuformed of this catastrophe. 
Nor is it surprising when we reflect 
on their situation, in the midst of 
a hostile country, surrounded on all 
sides by innumerable, faithless en- 
emies; hemmed in by rapid streams 
and inaccessible mountains, without 
guides, provisions or leaders. For- 
tunately, there was found among 
them one man with enough energy 
and influence to arouse their droop- 
ing spirits, and stir them up to 
fresh action. That man was Xen- 
ophou. Inspired by what he con- 
sidered an ominous dream, he as- 
sembled the officers and the troops, 
and in a fervent address he 
brought home to them the ur- 
gency of immediate action, and the 
folly of trusting in any one but 
themselves and the favor of Heaven . 

The triumph of his eloquence was 
complete. Confidence was entirely 
restored, and as a proof of their 
implicit faith in Xenophon himself, 
the soldiers unanimously chose him 
as one of their new leaders. Plans 
for the retreat were then proposed, 
discussed, approved and put into 
execution without delay. All the 
superfluous baggage was burnt, and 
the river forded at once, before the 
Persians could oppose their pas- 
sage; and the march was continued 
along the Tigris. The enemy fol- 
lowed closely on their track, and 
constantly harassed their rear, thus 
rendering their progress both diffi- 
cult and slow. 

When they reached the moun- 
tainous regions of Armenia, new 
obstacles and still more dangerous 
foes confronted the heroic band. At 
their left still flowed the Tigris, as 
deep and rapid as ever; and it 
could not bo crossed for want of 
boats. In front loomed up steep 
and craggy mountains, swarming 
with Barbarians, whose territory 
had never been trod by an enemy, 
and who proved still more formid- 

able than the Persians themselves; 
so much so, that the latter would 
not proceed any further. But the 
Greeks had no choice, aud they did 
not falter. The natives did every- 
thing in their power to obstruct 
their march, rolling stones from the 
heights upon their ranks, and often 
coming to close quarters. Much 
time was thus spent, and great 
losses sustained in repelling their 
attacks. The weather too, caused 
additional sufferings; for it was 
now the middle of winter, and the 
cold was intense, the wind bitter, the 
snow deep and blinding, and pro- 
visions extremely scarce. Neverthe- 
less, their uutiringenergy, undaunt- 
ed valor and perseverance upheld 
them through all these obstacles. 
At last, one day, from the height of 
a mountain, they beheld the distant 
waves of the Euxiue or Black Sea. 
In their wild joy and enthusiasm, 
they wept, embraced each other, 
loaded their guides with presents, 
and raised a mound of stones to 
mark the spot. A few more days 
brought them to Trapezus— the 
modern Trebisond — a prosperous 
Greek colony on the shores of the 
Black Sea. Here they were hospi- 
tably received, and remained several 
weeks to rest from their past fa- 
tigues. It was now February of the 
year 400, B. C; five months had 
elapsed since the battle of Cuuaxa. 
Wearied with continual marching 
and fighting, our heroes resolved 
to perform the rest of their journey 
by sea. But as they could only pro- 
cure a sufficient number of ships to 
carry their invalids and unneces- 
sary baggage, the main body had 
to proceed by land, cheered, how- 
ever, by the sight of the sea and 
the prospect of a speedy return to 
their firesides. But as dangers be- 
came less, their democratic spirit- 
asserted itself and broke out into 
serious dissensions, which might 
have endangered their safety on 
the very threshold of their homes, 
had they not been quelled by the 
tact and eloquence of Xenophon. 





Finally all were able to embark 
at Cotyora, and after various de- 
lays and landings for the purpose of 
securing provisions, they reached 
Chrysopolis, a small town just op- 
posite to Byzantium— now Con- 
stantinople—whither they also re- 
paired some days after, only to 
undergo new trials and sufferings 
occasioned by the duplicity and in- 
justice of their own countrymen. 

Just then Seuthes, a Thracian 
prince, entreated them through his 
envoys to assist him in recovering 
his lost dominions, promising them 
a liberal compensation. The offer 
was accepted and the task per- 
formed ; but the unscrupulous 
Thracian failed to keep his prom- 
ise. Before this quarrel had been 
settled, our heroes were called upon 
to engage in a more honorable 
warfare. The King of Persia had 
declared war against Sparta on ac- 
count of her co-operation with Cy- 
rus; and messengers from Lace- 
daemon came to invite the latter's 
force to fight once more against 
Artaxerxes. A great majority of 
their number gladly welcomed this 
invitation. Xenophon himself de- 
clined to enlist, but accompanied 
his men as far as Pergamus, where 
by merging in the army of the 
Spartan general Thimbrou, they 
lost their distinctive existence and 
disappeared from history as the 
Ten Thousand. But their name 
was destined to live forever — a 
perfect synonym of unparalleled 
genius, endurance and heroism. 

H. H. Lyons, First Gram. 


HE same prominence which 
is given to Cyrus in the ac- 
count of the expedition, is 
justly assigned to Xeno- 
phon, as will be seen in the 
narrative of the memorable 
Retreat of the Ten Thousand. A few 
words about his life and character 
cannot, therefore, be out of place, 
and may prove of some interest. 

Notwithstanding his eminence 
and his fame as a writer, we pos- 
sess but scanty and unreliable in- 
formation about Xenophon. For- 
tunately for us, he has been, to 
some extent, his own biographer, 
and has furnished us with sufficient 
data, to form a correct estimate of 
his character. Although historians 
agree that he lived to an extreme 
old age, the exact date, both of his 
birth and of his death, is still a 
matter of conjecture. His long ca- 
reer probably extended between 
the years 445 and 355 B. C. ; for he 
appears to have been present at the 
battle of Delium in 424, and men- 
tion is made, in his own writings, of 
events which occurred as late as 
the year 357. We have his own 
testimony that he was an Athenian. 
Of his boyhood, however, we know 
nothing. Tradition relates, that 
when a mere lad of fifteen, he attract- 
ed the notice of Socrates, who 
happened to meet him in the street. 
Barring the way with his cane, the 
philosopher eyed the youth for a 
while, and then asked him where 
provisions could be procured. " In 
the market," was the reply. "And 
where," pursued the philosopher, 
"can one learn to be wise and 
good?" The young man hesitated. 
"Follow me," continued Socrates, 
" and you shall learn." From that 
very hour the great philosopher 
numbered Xenophon among his 
most devoted disciples. 

From the practical knowledge of 
military science, of which Xenophon 
gave evidence in the conduct of the 
Retreat of the Ten Thousand, we 
are led to believe, that he took part 
in the latter campaigns of the 
Peloponnesian War, and thus wit- 
nessed the defeats of his country- 
men and the triumphs of Sparta, a 
circumstance which partly ac- 
counts for his subsequent lack of 
patriotism and his open admiration 
for Lacedaemon. In the year 402 
B.C., his Boeotian friend Proxenus, 
one of the Greek generals who had 
enlisted in the service of Cyrus, sent 



him a message from Sardis, inviting 
him to join the expedition. De- 
lighted with this proposal, Xeno- 
phon at once submitted it to 
Socrates. Fearing that his friend 
might incur the displeasure of the 
Athenians, by following a professed 
ally of Sparta, Socrates, without 
openly condemning the step, re- 
frained from giving his sanction to 
it, and advised his client to consult 
the oracle of Apollo on the subject. 
But Xenophon, who was bent on un- 
dertaking the journey, so worded his 
inquiries as to evade an unfavor- 
able answer, and in consequence, he 
repaired to Sardis, where he met 
with a ready welcome. The fears 
of Socrates were realized, but the 
want of deference to his advice hap- 
pily resulted in giving to the world 
an Anabasis. 

Xenophon merely accompanied 
Cyrus as a friend, but, as will be 
seen elsewhere, he afterwards be- 
came identified with the events that 
followed the battle of Cunaxa. Af- 
ter successfully conducting the 
Greeks back to their homes, Xeno- 
phon returned to Athens, but he 
was soon banished from that city, 
probably for taking part in the 
Cyreian Expedition. From that 
time, our author cast his fortunes 
with Sparta, accompanied the 
Lacedaemonian general Agesilaus 
in his campaigns against several 
Persian satraps and fought with him 
at Coronea against his own coun- 
trymen. In return for his signal 
services, the Spartans presented 
him with a splendid estate at Scyl- 
lus, in the neighborhood of Olym- 
pia, the world-renowned scene of 
the Olympic games. 

Weary of the toils and cares 
of active life, he retired to 
his new home, where he de- 
voted the remaining days of his 
long lifetothecomposition of those 
admirable works which have placed 
him among the foremost of classic 
writers. In all his writings, which 
embrace nearly every province of 
literature, from themodestessay to 
the philosophical treatise* he dis- 
plays that peculiar versatility of 
mind and happy combination of 
humor and good sense, simplicity 
and enthusiasm, uprightness and 
sociability, which formed the 
ground-work of his character. The 
simplicity and perspicuity of his 
style is so uniform, the charm and 
sweetness of his diction so great, 
that he is deservedly known in the 
literary world as the Attic Bee. He 
may lack the depth and originality 
of Thucydides, or the sublimity of 
Plato, but if he never dazzles, he 
never fails to please and interest 
the reader. 

We are not told where, or when, 
Xenophon ended his days. There 
is, however, some probability that 
he was not allowed to die in his 
favorite retreat of Scyllus, but was 
compelled to retire to Corinth. We 
have no authority for supposing 
that he ever returned to Athens, 
although the sentence of his ban- 
ishment had been repealed. It is 
pleasing to notice, however, that 
he became reconciled to his coun- 
trymen ; and we cannot better con- 
clude this brief sketch than by 
quoting his dying wish: "May I 
see my country quiet and prosper- 
ous, before I descend into my grave." 

R. Sere, First Gram. 




ODE Xlir. BK. III. 

ANDUSIAN Fount! Dost gems outshine, 
Worthy of flowers and mellow wine, 
^2^ At morn to thee a kid I'll vow, 
Y Whose budding horns and swelling brow 

Foretoken strife and love and fun. 
In vain! Thy cool stream shall anon 
Blush crimson with the yearling's blood, 
Doomed offspring of a sportive brood. 

The burning dog-star's scorching heat 
Duist not disturb thy cool retreat, 
But e'er a pleasant rest dost yield 
To cattle weary of the field. 

Thy name mid storied founts shall ring, 
Whilst thy holm-shaded grot I sing, 
Whence gushing in a ceaseless spray, 
Thou ebbest on thy garrulous way. 

J. F. Goggan, Rhet. 

IURING the reign of terror, 
when many a noble head fell 
under the keen-edged guillo- 
tine, la Vendee alone re- 
mained loyal to her sovereign 
and faithful to her God. In 
this province, there dwelt a holy 
priest, named l'Abbe Pierre. In 
spite of the unrelenting persecu- 
tions of the terrorists, he kept ever 
at the head of his flock, encourag- 
ing its fidelity and attending to all 
its spiritual needs-; at the call of 
duty he hastened to the peasant's 
lowly hut as cheerfully as to the 
stately halls of the noble. It is not 
strange then, that the zealous priest 
had endeared himself to the neigh- 
borhood. Only two persons in all 
the country around did not share 
this warm appreciation, the epoux 
Brissac, the innkeepers, who were 
republicans to the core. The vil- 
lagers, in fact, entertained well 
grounded suspicious that they had 

betrayed to the Jacobins the hiding 
place of a noble duke, who had 
sought refuge in their hamlet. 
One stormy uight,a half dozen dark 
forms shrouded in military cloaks 
might have been seen stealthily 
gliding through the brushwood 
and undergrowth of the neighbor- 
ing woods, and directing their 
steps towards the inn. As they ap- 
proached, Brissac appeared at the 
door, and having made sure that 
they were un observed, beckoned the 
soldiers to enter. Stepping in they 
found supper ready, and immedi- 
ately sat down to enjoy a hearty 
meal, and to quaff the rich wine 
served for the occasion. Mean- 
while the hostess slipped on 
her sabots, and wrapping a woollen 
shawl around her, bade the carous- 
ers au revoir, and sallied forth into 
the dark and stormy night. 

At length she stopped at the 
door of one of the neighboring cot- 



tages, and knocking loudly, cried in 
a plaintive voice : " For the love of 
God, open !" 

The master of the house appeared, 
candle in hand, and through the 
half open door, enquired the cause 
which compelled her to brave the 
darkness and the storm. 

"Oh! my husband! my poor — 
dear — Brissac is dyiug and cries for 
a priest; for God's sake tell me 
where to find him," exclaimed the 
perfidious citoyenne, as she raised 
her handkerchief to her eyes and 
pretended to wipe away tears she 
had never shed. The kind hearted 
neighbor, deeply concerned at her 
apparent distress, at once directed 
her to the house which sheltered 
the object of her search. The false 
woman, after feigned expressions of 
gratitude, hastily crossed over to 
the Ferme-aux-Poiriers, for such 
was the name of the place. 

Opening the door cautiously, 
she entered without any noise, 
and discovered the priest devoutly 
reciting the breviary. With renew- 
ed impudence, she rehearsed the ly- 
ing tale of her husband's dying 
cries, and implored him in the name 
of God to hasten and hear his con- 
fession, ere it were too late. The good 
priest rose at once, and taking his 
hat and cloak, bade the woman 
lead the way. 

But while they are hastening 
on in silence, let us go back 
to the inn. There, bottle in 
hand, Brissac sits at the head of 
the table, and in loud, unseemly 
oaths, curses the priests and re- 
ligion. The soldiers urged by his 
example, and under the influence of 
the wine, reechoed his ribald jests 
and jeers. The young officer alone 
stood apart, leaning against the 
mantel-piece, with his dark eyes 
fixed thoughtfully upon the fire. 
The expression which sat on his 

pale and noble features betokened 
that the errand on which he had 
been dispatched, was not to his 
liking. He was suddenly interrupted 
in his reverie by the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps. Just then a 
flash of lightning cast a lurid ray 
over the grounds, and the gen- 
darme who sat near the window 
exclaimed in an undertone of tri- 
umph : "Le cure ! le cure" ! " 

Thereupon, the soldiers rose 
quickly and lined the lower wall, 
while Brissac leaped into a bed, and 
drawing the covering over him, 
closed his eyes in feigned illness. 

The next moment, the door was 
flung open and the citoyenne en- 
tered hastily, followed by the priest. 
Without noticing anyone, the zeal- 
ous pastor ran to the bed, and 
leaning over the body of the seem- 
ingly unconscious patient, laid his 
hand upon his brow, then ap- 
proaching his ear to the heart, he 
listened intently awhile; finally he 
rose,aud in a sorrowful tone : " Alas ! 
I am too late," he exclaimed, "the 
man is dead." At this unexpected 
news, a cry of terror rang through 
the apartment, and the citoyenne 
fell senseless to the floor. This, as 
well as the sight of the soldiers 
whom he now perceived, revealed to 
the priest the snare which had been 
laid to entrap him. He raised his 
eyes to Heaven ; a look of resigna- 
tion lit up his saintly features, and 
folding his arms he said : "Gentle- 
men, I am your prisoner." 

Whilst the terror-stricken soldiers 
gazed on in awe, the young officer 
stepped forward. 

"Man of God" exclaimed he, 
"Go thy way; not a hair of thy 
venerable head will suffer barm." 

He who marks the sparrow's fall, 
had saved His priest. 

P. A. Lelong, 

Second Gram. 




>OTHING appears to me 
more excellent than the 
power of holdingenchain- 
ed the minds of an assem- 
bly by the charms of 
speech, of fascinating; 
their heart, impelling their will 
whithersoever you desire, and di- 
verting them from whatsover you 

Such are the words in which Cic- 
ero, the Prince of Roman orators, 
gives expression to his enthusiasm 
for the noble art of eloquence. Well, 
indeed, might the eminent master 
of Latin oratory extol an art 
which, iu its highest flights, proves 
beyond all doubt the greatest exer- 
tion of the human intellect. For, 
in order to attain that degree of 
excellence, which properly consti- 
tutes one an orator and wins the 
admiration of mankind, it requires 
for its conception, a combination of 
the most exalted endowments; for 
its execution, a union of the most 
extraordinary faculties. 

Great powers of understanding 
must be With- 
out this first requisite, indeed, no 
one can exert any real influence 
over the minds of others; for fools 
can persuade only fools. In order 
to move the will of a sensible man, 
we must first convince him, and 
this can only be done by satisfying 
his understanding as to the reason- 
ableness of what we propose. 

The true orator must moreover 
be endowed with strong sensibility, 
an ardent and lively imagination, 
joined to soundness of judgment 
and great felicity of expression. 
Lastly, he must unite in thought, 
those most varied and dissimilar 
faculties of the soul— a retentive 
memory with an enthusiastic fancy, 
a mind stored with facts and a 
heart throbbing in quick sympathy 
with every noble impulse, the 
warmth of poetry with a keen and 
practical conception of the realities 
of life. 

Yet, this is not all; physical pow- 
ers, if not altogether essential, are a 
great addition to the mental quali- 
ties required for oratorical success. 
A pleasing appearance, a rich, me- 
lodious voice and graceful delivery, 
will be of great assistance to us in 
our endeavors. In other words, 
eloquence opens to us a vast field, 
in which all the endowments of 
mind and body have full play. It 
furnishes us with an opportunity 
to display whatever natural gifts 
we may possess, or accomplish- 
ments we may have acquired. 

Nor is it surprising, moreover, that 
eloquence should require the blend- 
ing of such rare and varied quali- 
ties, for of all the efforts of the 
human mind, none are so startling 
in nature and none more immedi- 
ate in their results. This godlike 
power enables a man, by his own 
mental faculties, to sustain the tot- 
tering thrones of empires, to check 
furious riots, to restrain civil feuds, 
to conciliate contending nations, 
ameliorate the condition of his 
country and promote the welfare of 
his fellow-men. 

The philosopher, indeed, the his- 
torian, the statesman and the gen- 
eral, in their individual capacities, 
may exert a more lasting, but still 
incomparably less rapid influence 
upon human affairs. It is even true 
that in these different professions 
or careers, men may, by dint of con- 
tinued efforts, come to shape the 
prosperous course of entire nations; 
but to achieve such a happy and 
permanent result, long years of as- 
siduous labor are necessary. The 
triumphs of the'orator, on the con- 
trary, are instantaneous. His in- 
fluence is immediately felt. His, 
and his alone it is, 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read his history in a nation's eyes. 

The conquests of true eloquence 
are recorded on every page in the 
annals of all nations of the world. 



Thus by the power and force of his 
arguments, Demosthenes, in his 
speech "On the Crown," so com- 
pletely won over the minds of the 
Athenian council, that his opponent 
.Eschines failed to get even so much 
as one-fifth of the votes, and left 
the assembly a ruined man, with 
no prospect but exile before him. 
Again, we see the sudden effect of 
that indignant invective delivered 
by Cicero against Catiline in the 
Roman Senate. The fiery harangue 
of Catiline himself, had so far influ- 
enced his accomplices, that nothing 
but Cicero's mightier outburst 
could have prevented a general 

Later, we behold St. John Chrys- 
ostom, with uplifted hand, quell the 
excited multitude and save the fug- 
itive and trembling Eutropius from 
imminent death. In more modern 
times, we see Patrick Henry rouse 
the oppressed colonies to take up 
arms against the Mother Country, 
in a sudden revolution, for their lib- 
erties and their rights. We, like- 
wise, admire the glorious achieve- 
ments of Burke, O'Connell and 
Chatham, in England; of Webster, 
Calhoun and Clay, in America; of 
Massillon, Bourclaloueand Bossuet 
in France; and commend them for 
the high degree of perfection to 
which they carried the forensic and 
pulpit eloquence of their respective 

Genuine eloquence, however, is 
not confined to oral discourse alone. 
We find many examples in works 
and plays written for the sole pur- 
pose of literary enjoyment. With 
what studied rhetoric, does Shake- 
speare make Brutus and Anthony 
address their countrymen, in the in- 

terest of their warring aims. How 
we marvel also at the oratorical 
skill displayed by Satan and the 
other fallen Angels assembled in 
Pandemonium, to debate by what 
best way to claim the inheritance 
of old, by open war or covert guile. 
How natural too and artless, how 
simple and pathetic are the speeches 
of the Iliad— the grandest poem 
human intellect ever conceived ! In 
them we find that wonderful truth 
to human nature, Homer's charac- 
teristic charm. Is there aught more 
eloquent, than the touching appeal 
aged Priam makes to swift-footed 
Achilles, the slayer of brazen -hel- 
meted Hector. He begins implor- 

Think of thy father, an old man like me, 

Godlike Achilles; on the very verge 

Of closing life he stands, and even now 

Haply is fiercely pressed by those who dwell 

Around him, and has none to shield his age 

From war and its disasters. Yet his heart 

Rejoices, when he hears thou yet dost live, 

And every day, he hopes that his dear son 

Will come again from Troy. My lot is hard, 

For I was father of the bravest sons 

In all wide Troy, and none are left me now. 

And Hector, whom I cherished most, Avhose arm 

Defended both our city and ourselves, 

Him didst thou lately slay while combating 

For his dear country. For his sake. 1 come 

To the Greek fleet, and to redeem his corse, 

I bring uncounted ransom . O ! revere 

The gods, Achilles, and be merciful, 

Calling to mind thy father! Happier lie 

Than I; for I have borne what no man else 

That dwells on earth could bear— have laid my lips 

Upon the hand of him who slew my son. 

In this manner he spoke, and his 
words moved the stout heart in the 
shaggy breast of Achilles, who gave 
back to Priam the mangled body 
of his beloved Hector. 

Such then is the matchless art of 
eloquence, affording enjoyment to 
the fancy, convincing the mind, 
moving the heart, promoting the 
welfare of nations; the worthy ob- 
ject, indeed, of every man's admi- 
ration and noblest endeavors. 

A. Lambert, Rhet. 




qS^HERE is, perhaps, no more 
wwfi) expressive and appropriate 
^My title for the a»'e in which we 
live, than the somewhat 
inelegant monosyllable 
" sham. 77 The world is grow- 
ing careless and indifferent to the 
true and the real, and is yielding it- 
self up to the gaudy and the deceit- 
ful. "All that glitters is not gold," 
was never more painfully evinced in 
every walk of life, and in every rank 
of society, than now-a-days. 

Man has set up a goddess of var- 
nished clay, whose crown is of false 
jewels,whose sceptre is deceit, whose 
flimsy purple mantle blinds our 
eyes to all deformities. Step into 
one of our first class furnishing 
stores for gentlemen. You will find 
false cuffs with buttons of sham 
gold, set with counterfeit stones; 
you will see fine linen shirt-bosoms 
of unblemished whiteness, ready to 
be fastened on the commonest shirt 
front. As for paper collars, they 
are to be had "ad libitum," of ev- 
ery conceivable shape, size, and 

With regard to the ladies, it is 
difficult to decidein their "make up" 
what is sham, what is real — so 
skilfully does fashion shape them 
into whatever form their changing 
fancy may dictate. 

Not fashion alone, but education 
itself, with cramming and smatter- 
ing, has become a real sham ; and 
are not our groceries even, shams? 
Who can say how much marble 
dust and plaster of Paris is mixed 
with our sugar? How much saw- 
dust with our ginger? How much 
water in our milk? What decoc- 
tion of rye, or amount of roasted 
walnuts in the coffee sold to deluded 
connoisseurs, as the choicest article 
in the market! But the subject I 
have to deal with is not the age of 
sham, but sham orators. 

Well, who are the sham orators? 

They are divided by various au- 
thors into three classes. 

The first is the twaddler, the man 
who says mere idle nothings, in a 
stumbling, dreary manner. You 
will find him, in his most developed 
form at the public dinner-table. He 
is content and joyous at the social 
feasts of his boon companions. He 
smiles and laughs, his face is beam- 
ing with cheerfulness, wheu lo! 
without the slightest warning, he 
is called upon to rise and make a 

No sooner has he gotten up, than 
his memory fails, his few ideas dis- 
appear—whither they go, he cannot 
tell, and his head is left altogether 
empty. He mutters some well- 
known expressions, such as: "Gen- 
tlemen : I am very unexpectedly 
called upon "—"I beg to be excused" 
or "This joyous occasion brings to 
my mind," and the like. In his 
nervousness, he spills his wine upon 
the table-cloth, he then thrusts his 
hands deep into his pockets, as 
though he were searching for some 
ideas kindly dropped in there by 
his neighbor, but his search is fruit- 
less. He is travelling an unknown 
road without a guide, and is ex- 
pected every moment to sink into 
his seat amid the groans of the 
other guests. Hackneyed phrases 
however, and remnants of former 
after-dinner speeches, are always 
floating about. At these he clutches 
eagerly, in his struggle tosave him- 
self from utter disgrace. 

So much for the twaddler. 

The second of the sham orators 
is described by Pryde, as the man 
of the sounding-brass type, the 
"vox et praeterea nihil," and the 
ranter. Blair tells us, that ifwewish 
to be truly eloquent, we must speak 
to the purpose. But little notice does 
the second of the sham orators pay 
to this rule. He may possibly have 
some message to communicate, but 



he cares naught for that. The mat- 
ter and sense are of no consequence 
to him ; the manner and the sound 
are all that concern him. He ad- 
dresses himself more to the hearing 
of his audience, than to their intel- 
lectual powers. Hesitation is un- 
known to him, fluency of speech 
never fails him. Without a single 
idea in his head, he utters common- 
place after common-place, and 
pours into the ears of his listeners 
an unbroken stream of musical 

The "Highways of Literature'' 
gives, as an example of this class, 
the well known address of Chad- 
band to the London Arab Jo. 
''What are you, my young friend? 
Are you a beast of the field? No! 
A bird of the air? No! A fish of 
the sea or river? No ! A flower of 
the meadow? No! You are a hu- 
man boy, mv young friend, a hu- 
man boy! Oh! how great, how 
glorious, how exalting, to be a hu- 
man boy! 

O running stream of sparkling joy, 
To be a human, a soaring boy." 

The third, and last, of the sham 
orators is the stump speaker, the 
leader of a party or the retailer of 
false reasoning, which we Americans 
call "bunkum." 

The best examples of this class 
were the Greek sophists, who can- 
didly admitted that they paid no 
regard whatever to the truth, and 
claimed that it must accommodate 
itself to the wants of man. 

The speaker at a political meet- 
ing, is another good specimen. 
How skilfully he chooses his lu- 
dicrous metaphors to annihilate 
his opponents. Satire, repartee, 
jokes and jibes constitute his 
whole speech. He never stops to 
consider the truthfulness of his re- 
marks. W T hy should he, when his 
only aim is to hoodwink his hear- 
ers? Let them beware, then, he is 
throwiug dust into their eyes. 

Surely, this cannot be the true 
end of oratory, for if it were, then 
indeed, the curse of a country would 
be its eloquent men. 

Jas. Glennon, Rhet. 


N reviewing the lives of our great 
statesmeu, brilliant speakers 
and warm-hearted patriots, we 
cannot pass over in silence the 
illustrious name of John C. 
Calhoun, the stern "Iron Man," 
as he was commonly called by his 

From his father Patrick Calhoun, 
a man of undaunted courage and 
bravery, and from his mother 
Martha Caldwell, the daughter of 
a Presbyterian minister, John in- 
herited that strong and unswerving 
devotion to liberty and right, which 
was to be the leading trait of his 
sterling character. 

At the age of thirteen he was 
placed in the academy of his 
brother-in-law Dr. Waddle, a most 
distinguished and learned profes- 
sor. Here he applied himself with 

such zeal and diligence, that in a 
few years he was enabled to join the 
Junior class of Yale University, 
where he soon displayed great orig- 
inality of thought, keenness of in- 
tellect, and a lofty ambition. At 
the close of his college career, his 
efforts were crowned with the high- 
est honors of a large and well tal- 
ented class. 

After brilliant studies in law, at 
Litchfield, Connecticut, he was ad- 
mitted to the bar and rose rapidly 
to distinction. 

Simple in his habits, strong in his 
sentiments, strict in his morals, and 
thorough in his knowledge, the 
young lawyer was ably trained for 
the career, which in 1811 was opened 
before him, by his election to the 

When Calhoun entered Congress, 



war with England was imminent. 
His maiden speech was a powerful 
appeal for American rights, urging 
a declaration of war, and uphold- 
ing' the cause of his country with 
an eloquence that fired his hearers 
with patriotic enthusiasm. 

It is impossible, in this short 
sketch, to trace the numerous and 
invaluable services of Mr. Calhoun 
during the war. Called by Presi- 
dent Monroe in 1817 to the office 
of Secretary of State, he won a 
well-merited and lasting fame. To 
this day, from the testimonies of 
recent secretaries, the department 
feels the impress of his genius for 
the organization and methodical 
adjustment of its various branches. 
"Such was the high estimate I 
formed of his transcendent talents/' 
says Mr. Clay in his eulogy on Cal- 
houn, " that if at the end of his ser- 
vices in the executive department 
under the administration of Mr. 
Monroe, the duties of which he had 
performed with such signal ability, 
he should have been called to the 
highest office in the government, I 
should have felt perfectly assured 
that under his auspices, the honor, 
prosperity and glory of our country 
would have been safely placed." 

It was during his term of office as 
Secretary of State, that the im- 
portant question of the annexation 
of Texas was put before the House. 
Calhoun was much in favor of the 
bill, but did all in his power to pre- 
vent war between the United States 
and Mexico. When war was finally 
declared, he was heard to say : "It 
has placed a veil between the present 
and the future, which to me is im- 
penetrable, and for the first time 
si nee I am in public life, I am unable 
to see the future. It has closed the 
first volume of our political history 
under the constitution, and opened 
the second, and no mortal can tell 
what will be written in it." 

Lofty in his sentiments, inflexible 
in his opinions, and untiring in his 
labors, Calhoun found no task how- 
soever arduous or painful, that he 

would not cheerfully perform for 
the country he loved so well. He 
enjoyed the honors of all the high- 
est offices of the state, save the 
presidency, and this in all probabil- 
ity he would have attained, but 
that his aspirations were subor- 
dinate to his principles. 

Webster, his political antagonist, 
said of him : " Nothing groveling, 
low, or meanly selfish came near his 
head or his heart." 

As a speaker, he was noted for 
forcible logic, clear demonstration 
and deep earnestness. His intel- 
lectual power displayed itself, prin- 
cipally, in the ease and exactness 
with which he reduced the most in- 
tricate propositions to their ele- 
mentary principles, and in the rap- 
idity with which he deduced their 
necessary consequences. 

In his speeches, Mr. Calhoun was 
simple, clear, straightforward, nat- 
ural and dignified, yet, on fit occa- 
sions, he rose to the highest flights 
of eloquence. Take, as an exam- 
ple this passage from his speech on 
the "Force Bill." in reference to the 
ordinance of the South Carolina 
convention : 

" It has been said, that the bill is 
a measure of peace. Yes, such peace 
as the wolf gives to the lamb — or 
the kite to the dove! I proclaim it 
openly — should the bill pass, and an 
attempt made to enforce it, it will 
be resisted at every hazard— even 
that of death itself. Death is not 
the greatest calamity. There are 
others still more terrible to the free 
and to the brave— and among them 
may be placed, the loss of liberty 
and of honor. There are ten thous- 
and of South Carolina's brave sons, 
who, if need be, are prepared cheer- 
fully to lay down their lives, in de- 
fence of their state and the great 
principles of liberty for which she 
is contending. This shall never be, 
unless the government is resolved 
to bring the question to extremity, 
when her gallant sons will stand 
prepared to perform their last duty 
—to die nobly," 



The last few years of Mr. Cal- 
houn's eventful career were espe- 
cially devoted to the defense of the 

On March 4th, 1850, he made his 
last speech in the senate, and in 
this, he ably supported the South- 
ern states on the slave question. 

By his family, Mr. Calhoun was 
beloved; by his friends, honored, 

and by his state, idolized ; while his 
great name was revered and re- 
spected throughout the country. 
He died as he had lived— an exam- 
ple to be imitated by all true heart- 
ed Americans, and a character 
never to be forgotten. 

Cold in dust his perished heart may lie, • 
But that which wanned it once, can never die. 

A. L. Grace, Khet. 


To a statue of Mqgy Immaculate, which overlooked the Spring and Lake. 

IPPLING the lake, the breeze wafts on the air 
The sweet magnolia bloom, and blends the light, 
Soft sighs of pine and cedar, with the bright 
Spring's murmurs gay ; my boyhood care 
Forgot, I love to gaze, O Mother fair, 
Upon thy peerless form enrobed in white 
And zoned in blue — and lo ! thine eyes with light 
From Heaven now glow, while part thy lips in prayer. 

This lovely spot, alas! this rapturous sight, 
Anon I'll leave to tread life's devious way; 
Anon Earth's smiles and Pleasure's siren lay 
Will vie to tempt my faltering feet astray. 
O may this vision then shine ever bright 
On Memory's wall, and guide my steps aright' 



F all great men, whether in 
ancient or modern times, 
none, perhaps, has left a 
indelible impression 
the "sands of time" 
Charles V, King of 

Born amidst the throes and con- 
vulsions of empires, when old dy- 
nasties and venerable thrones were 
crumbling and tottering; raised to 
the imperial dignity when the doc- 
trines, principles and false theories 
of Luther, Zuinglius and Calvin 
were about to fire the masses with 
ideas of religious reformation, he 

spent his early life in a school 
which was to train his mind, and 
strengthen his character for the ar- 
duous position he was destined to 

In 1519, having 
perial crown of 
reigned for many 
prudence and 
istic of a wise 

•eceived the im- 
(iermany, , he 

years, with the 
ntegrity charadter- 
and just monarch. 

To his already vast and prosperous 
realms, he added many foreigu 
provinces, and throughout the) en- 
tire world, his name was honored 
and respected. Notwithstanding 
his brilliant career and the tempt- 



ing prospects of his future great- 
ness, his lofty soul recognized the 
fact, that all earthly things are 
transitory, and human greatness 
hut an idle dream. Incited thus to 
truer and loftier aspirations, he 
abandoned the short-lived vanities 
of worldly pomp and retired into a 
monastery, there to consecrate the 
evening of his life to the interests 
of his immortal soul, to the honor 
and glory of God. 

The old monastery was, indeed, 
a spot where man could lay aside 
the burthen of earthly cares and 
forget the world with its shallow 
glories and alluring temptations. 
With every breath of its holy at- 
mosphere, anew life seemed stirring 
within the soul— a life fraught with 
ineffable calm and purity, mingled 
with a longing desire to obtain 
that unspeakable bliss, which con- 
formity to the will of God alone 
can give. Here in this hallowed 
abode, Charles lived for two years, 
devoting his time to spiritual exer- 
cises and innocent amusements. 
Shortly before his death, he con- 
ceived and executed oneof the most 
extraordinary whims, of which his- 
tory makes mention. He determ- 
ined to have his funeral rites per- 
formed, with all the impressive 
ceremonies attendant upon such an 

In the gray light of a December 
morning, just as the first faint 
streaks of dawn were tinting the 
eastern sky, the velvet-covered 
coffin, containing the king, was 
borne in stately procession to the 
chapel of the monastery. Princes, 
courtiers and attendants were 
kneeling with drooped heads before 
the high altar, and the monks were 
chanting, in deep and solemn tones, 
the office of the dead. The walls 
and ceiling were draped in black, 
and every chandelier was wreathed 
in sable crape. Innumerable tapers 
blazed upon the altars and around 
the bier, but the dark tapestry 
upon the windows excluded the 
light and deepened the gloom. As 

the last mournful notes of the "Dies 
lrae" floated from the choir, the 
venerable abbot, crosier in hand, as- 
cended the ambon and pronounced 
in grave and measured tones, the 
following funeral oration : 

"Brethren, never, indeed, has oc- 
casion become more opportune to 
utter that oft repeated passage of 
scripture: 'Vanity of vanities, and 
all is vanity.' Behold before you 
the mortal remains of the illustri- 
ous, the powerful, the high-souled, 
the invincible Charles V. Yesterday, 
a king, wielding a powerful sceptre, 
to-day, a lifeless piece of clay. Yes- 
terday, ruling a nation on whose 
vast extent the sun never sets ; to- 
day, stiff and cold, stretched within 
the narrow limits of his coffin. 
Where now, Emperor, is thy 
sceptre? Where now, O King, thy 
princely robes, thy crowns? Where, 
Sovereign, thy fawning courtiers 
and swarming parasites? Alas! 
the3* have all vanished; 'Death, 
who knocks with impartial tread 
at the hut of the peasant and the 
palace of the prince, has come and 
has stripped thee of all earthly gran- 
deur. Thou nearest no more the 
boom of bursting shell; thou near- 
est no more the din of battle, the 
neighing of the impatient charger 
and the exultant shout of thy vic- 
torious army; thou seest no more 
the impetuous onset of thy un- 
daunted warriors, the ground 
strewed with the dead and dying, 
the loud cries to continued assault, 
the volumes of smoke arising from 
booming cannon and rattling mus- 
kets—all these thou hast witnessed, 
but thou seest them no more. 

The budding grass of yonder field 
which thou hast seen matted and 
stained with the blood of a van- 
quished foe, will soon form a cov- 
erlet over thy narrow bed. O 
Glory, thou art but a name! Fame, 
thou art but an empty bubble! 
Grandeur, thou art but a mockery! 
'Vanity of vanities, and all is van- 
ity.' Thou hast subdued nations, 
civilized and barbarian ; nations 



countless in their number, bound- 
less in their extent, inexhaustible 
in their resources. But still, thou 
wast only conquering- foes who, by 
their very nature were vincible, for 
there is no people so strong, no 
country so powerful that its might 
cannot be broken by the force of 
arms. But didst thou subdue thy 
passions? Didst thou bring' them 
under the sway of reason? Didst 
thou overcome thyself? If not, all 
thy conquests, all thy fame, all thy 
glory, thy pomp and grandeur, 
will not weigh one jot in the bal- 
ance of God's unerring justice. If 
not, in the words of Wisdom, thou 
hast wearied thyself in the way of 
iniquity and destruction, and hast 
walked through hard ways, but the 
way of the Lord thou hast not 
known. What hath pride profited 
thee? or, what advantage hath the 
boasting of riches brought thee? All 
those things are passed away like 
a post that runneth on, and like a 
ship that passeth through the 
waves; whereof, when it is gone by, 
the trace cannot be found, nor the 
path of its keel in the waters. Or 
as when a bird fiieth through the 
air, of the passage of which no 

mark can be found, or as when an 
arrow is shot at a mark, the divid- 
ed air presently cometh together 
again, so that the passage thereof 
is not known. E'en so, have van- 
ished thy glory and wealth and 
grandeur. These must all be left 
on this side of the grave. 'Naked 
we came into this world, and naked 
we shall leave it, carrying nothing 
away but our good and evil deeds, 
receiving reward for the one, just 
punishment for the other. A clear 
conscience, a soul untainted by sin 
and a mind free from all prejudice 
against our fellowmen, are the only 
offerings God will accept as a pass- 
port into his eternal kingdom. All 
in us is vain, except the sincere 
avowal we make of our nothingness 
before God.' 

The abbot ceased : The obsequies 
were then completed. Charles was 
so much moved by the impressive 
ceremonies, that he retired to his 
apartments in a state of deep- 
est reflection. Shortly afterwards, 
he was attacked by a violent fever 
and expired, in a few days, with 
peace, and resignation to the will of 

John H. Mock, Rhet. 



(jpT has often been a matter of 
^Jj conjecture to me, why some 
^*-> persons pay a certain amount 
of respect to tall people,, 
which they refuse to the 
short. They take a secret 
delight in walking with a friend 
who is their inferior in stature, and 
whilst in his company, assume an 
air of haughtiness which reminds 
one of a gallant cock in the barn- 
yard, strutting about in the midst of 
the other fowls. On the contrary, 
whenever chance places them by the 
side of a taller friend, they feel their 
inferiority, and dissatisfaction is 
plainly written on every feature. 
Whv should a short man be 

ashamed of his own stature? Can 
a single reason be given ? Tall men. 
as a rule, are generally awkward ; 
and as far as my experience extends, 
are never especially endowed with 
intellect. Yet, these same tall per- 
sonages are never seen without a 
certain swaggering air, as if they 
deemed themselves superior to oth- 
er folks. There is my friend L for 
instance; he is a kind, good-hearted 
fellow, or rather was, until he at- 
tained his present height, which is 
about six feet two. Theladies, how- 
ever, seem to admire his bravado- 
bragadocio sort of demeanor, but 
what they can see in him, is beyond 
my power of comprehension. 



I would not be a tall man under 
any consideration. A tall man is 
always in the way or in trouble. He 
does not know how to dispose of 
himself. He strikes bis head against 
obstacles, which men of ordinary 
size need not shun. It is a wonder 
to me, that on a very cold morning, 
he does not find snow and icicles 
upon his head. No little difficulty 
does he experience in securing a 
suit of clothes to fit him, and when 
he does get it, he has to foot a bill 
proportioned to the cloth. My 

friend L is fully aware of the 

fact, and often, as he stood before 
his dressing table, donning a new 
shirt or a new coat, have I heard 
him swear and apologize, almost in 
the same breath. 

We travelled together, once, for 
several hundred miles. I never was 
more pleased with my small size 
than I was on that trip. It was 

difficult to say whether L 's legs 

were a source of more annoyance 
to himself than to his fellow-trav- 
ellers. The fact is, the poor fellow 
never had a comfortable seat, from 
the time of our starting, to that of 
our return. On the steamboats, 
whenever he entered the cabin, he 
would bump his head against the 
ceiling; or if he chanced to be on 
deck, a swing rope would knock his 
new hat overboard. 

In the hotels, he fared still worse. 
They invariably put him in short 
beds; and it really seemed as if the 
housekeepers were all agreed to tor- 
ment him on account of his enorm- 
ous length. Whenever I came in his 
room to bid him good night, I 
would find the poor fellow stretched 
diagonally across his couch, his 
head resting against the head- 
board, his feet on the opposite 
piece, and his knees uncomfortably 
bent. It was mere pity that re- 
strained me from bursting into a 
roar of laughter. And yet, not- 
withstanding all these evident dis- 
advantages of being tall, my friend 
still looks upon a short man with 
a sort of inward contempt, poorly 
disguised under an outward show 
of patronizing deference. 

I remember once hearing a gen- 
tleman narrate a very amusing ac- 
count of his travels in a stage-coach. 
"I happened," said he, "to get into 
the stage-coach in the middle of the 

night, at B . As I entered the 

door, I stumbled over something 
which resembled an extraordinarily 
long pair of legs. Begging pardon 
of their possessor, I retired to the 
further end of the coach. Every 
time a new passenger got in. he ex- 
perienced the same misfortune 
which I myself had encountered on 
entering the door. As the thing be- 
came more annoying, several of 
the travellers requested the gentle- 
man to whom the legs belonged, to 
kindly dispose of them, in such a 
way as to be consonant with the 
principles of justice. Strange to 
say, there was no response to this 
reasonable request. Some discus- 
sion followed, and many jokes were 
gotten off, having for their sole ob- 
ject the pair of legs, which all the 
time steadfastly retained their po- 
sition across the doorway, in defi- 
ance alike of entreaties and threats. 

"As the day dawned, we discov- 
ered that the aforesaid legs be- 
longed to an exceedingly long- 
Frenchman, whose total ignorance 
of our language had shielded him 
from the numerous gibes, of which 
he had been the unconscious vic- 
tim." This forms a new link in the 
chain of evidences against the ad- 
vantages of being tall. 

It is a curious feature in the cha- 
racter of people of both sexes, that 
the tall of the one sex, generally 
prefer the short of the other, and 
vice versa. I cannot say that the 
height of the fair sex would make 
any material objection, or be con- 
sidered essential to constitute a 
happy family. For my part, I 
would prefer a companion, as little 
taller than myself as possible. 

To conclude, I do not really see 
why writers should not create short, 
as well as tall heroes; and why 
women should fall in love with a 
fellow, merely because his legs are 
prodigiously long. 

" Jas. Glennon, Rhet. 




O/^jHIS tragedy, whose catastro- 

jfltfl P ne i s attended with such 

^ftssf sad results, is supposed to 

have been written between 

the years sixteen hundred 

and five, and sixteen hundred 

and six. 

We may well judge of its early 
success, when we learn that only a 
few months after its first produc- 
tion upon the stage, the king re- 
quested it to be played before the 
court at Whitehall. This high mark 
of approbation naturally furthered 
its success, and once rehearsed and 
witnessed, it needed no royal pat- 
ronage to enhance its popularity. 
As early as the year 1608, however, 
three editions were printed, and a 
few years later, it was revised and 
reprinted with slight changes. 

From the historical ballad of old 
King Lier, Shakespeare drew the 
matter, upon which he founded this 
celebrated drama. From this fact, 
however, we cannot infer that the 
incidents of the play are strictly 
historical, for Shakespeare turns to 
history merely to draw his princi- 
pal characters and to trace the 
leading events, upon which to build 
his "tremendous" tragedy. 

The "contrasting" characters of 
Gloster and his sons are not found 
in any legendary lore connected 
with the story of the king. Hud- 
son, indeed, informs us that they 
are taken from Sir Philip Sidney's 
quaint Arcadia. But the develop- 
ment of these characters is wholly 
the creation of Shakespeare's fruit- 
ful mind and imagination. Schlegel 
bids us observe in this drama " the 
almost superhuman flight of genius, 
where the mind well-nigh loses it- 
self, just as much in the contempla- 
tion of all its heights and depths 
as the first impressions overpower 
the soul." Free and unfettered as 
a bird, Shakepeare's imagination 
soars aloft into the realms of love 
and hatred, and with practiced 

hand, depicts the innermost work- 
ings of the human soul. Again, in 
this play, often called the grandest 
and noblest of his dramas, we are 
allowed to view for an instant the 
imagination, the heart and the 
soul of the poet, at a time when they 
had attained their most powerful 
and intense vitality. 

The drama commences with the 
division of the king's dominions. 
Lear, worn out with age and care, 
and verging on second childhood, 
longs to transmit the management 
of state affairs to his daughters. 
About to execute this cherished 
plan, he summons his three daugh- 
ters and seeks from them a profes- 
sion of their love. From Goneril, 
he receives the manifestation of 
purest love. But the essence itself 
is deadly poison, and in its sweet- 
ness conceals craft, ambition and 
ingratitude. From Regan he re- 
ceives the sweet echo of GoneriTs 
promising, but deceitful words. 
Then the old king turns to Cordelia, 
and in these lines, 

"Now our joy 
Although our last not least," 

makes known that she had ever 
been his favored child, and expects 
from her a still grander display of 
affection. When to his repeated re- 
quests he receives naught but the 
frank reply : 

"Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 

My heart into my mouth: I love your Majesty 

According to my bond; nor more nor less." 

At an answer so simple, yet so in- 
finitely deep, his wavering mind is 
startled and aroused to senseless 
anger; he grows frantic and in a 
fit of madness disinherits his once 
darling child. 

Then appears the loyal, devoted 
Kent, who incurs the king's dis- 
pleasure, and suffers banishment for 
boldly pleading in behalf of faithful 
Cordelia, whose heart he reads 
more plainly than a blinded and 
misguided sire. While yet enraged t 



Lear summons France and Bur- 
gundy, to know whether they still 
persist in their courtship to Cor- 
delia, now under the ban of her 
father's wrath, and her fortunes 
marred. Under these conditions, 
Burgundy declines the match. 
Nobler France, then exclaims: 

"Fairest Cordelia, thou art most lich, being poor; 
Most ehoiee, forsaken; and most loved, despised; 
Thee, and thy virtues, here I seize upon; 
Be 't lawful, I take up what's east away." 

Then Cordelia, heavy-hearted, 
bids her sisters farewell. Their in- 
human plots, disguised by "spurious 
love" towards an aged parent, she 
reads with the wakeful eye of affec- 
tion, and thus commits to them her 
father's care : 

"Ye jewels of our father, with washed eyes, 
Cordelia leaves you: I know you, what you are; 
And like a sister, am most loth to call 
Your faults as they are nam'd. Love well our 

To your professed bosoms I commit him ; 
But yet, alas, stood I Avithin his grace, 
I would prefer him to a better place. 
So farewell to you both." 

Cordelia then is gone. Goneril 
and Regan have no longer the hand 
of love to stay their cruel plots. 
These tigers, not daughters, have 
one common aim, to reign in their 
father's stead. The eldest's char- 
acter is false and deceitful, merci- 
less in her thoughts, steady and 
persistent in her ambitious plans, 
and "the calm wielder of pitiless 
force." Regan, slower in the initia- 
tive, cringing even in her father's 
presence, outdoes her sister in 
malice and fierceness. 

But such monsters of ingratitude, 
such unnatural daughters, were not 
to prove more faithful wives. Soon 
wearying of duty, and cooling in 
affection, they centered their love 
upon another, upon Edmund the 
natural son of the earl of Gloster. 
And a meet object was he of the 
guilty love of such wicked daugh- 
ters. Edmund is, in fact,the imper- 
sonation of villainy and treachery. 
By his cunning and deceit, he suc- 
ceeds in firing his overcredulous 
father against his brother, the loyal 
Edgar, and finally leads him to 
disinherit the lawful heir. 

What a contrast between these 
two brothers. Edgar, the dutiful 
son, who flies from a father's mis- 
guided wrath, hides beneath the 
tattered robes of a Bedlam beggar, 
and in the character of a madman, 
whom the foul fiend pursues, seeks 
to screen his hunted form. Iu this 
garb he meets his outcast and blind 
father, and on the steep cliffs of 
Dover saves his life. Once more, 
then, is this faithful son the pre- 
server of his father, when Oswald 
the servant of Goneril attempts 
to kill him. 

Kent, banished like Edgar from 
the presence and heart he loved, 
hated for loyalty, cursed for true 
words, still clings to his hapless 
master. Calm, collected and per- 
severing, Kent strives to protect 
his liege's spirit from the shocks of 
life; while the fool labors to out- 
jest the king's misfortune. But his 
jests, Hudson tells us, "bubble up 
from the depths of heart struggling 
with pity and sorrow, as foam en- 
wreathes the faceof deeply troubled 

But of Lear, the outcast father, 
the victim of so many woes, who 
passes from darkness into light,and 
from light info darkness, how shall 
we speak? How account for his 
domineering spirit and wavering 
affections? A loving, yet deceived 
father, we first behold him. Whims 
that none but an unsettled mind 
could cherish, actions instigated by 
insanity, characterize his first 
speeches; especially when he ac- 
cepts the counterfeit love of Gon- 
eril and Regan, which he once knew 
to be false, in preference to the 
simple, but true, affection of Cor- 
delia. He divides his dominions, 
gives away his" crown; but with the 
crown yields up his liberty into the 
hands of his ungrateful daughters. 
For, anon, they neglect him, their 
servants grow churlish, and finally 
his retinue is denied him. Enraged, 
the king flies from Goneril to seek 
compassion and shelter in Regan's 
halls. Regan, previously informed 


by letter, and in league with Goneril, 
receives her father with cool con- 
tempt, and while she is still conver- 
sing with Lear, Goneril enters. The 
old and feeble father pleads, pro- 
tests and begs, saying that he has 
given them all, but only to receive 
the harsh, unnatural answer: 

"And in good time you gave it." 

which pierced the poor old king to 
the heart. Then his poor nature, 
standing on the very verge of its 
•'confine," breaks down and suc- 
cumbs to the cruel and heartless 
blow. His just anger for this 
sharp-toothed unkindness over- 
powers him, and he cries out: 

" You Heavens give me patience, patience I need, 
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 
As full of grief as age: wretched in both! 
Jf it be you who stir these daughters' hearts 
Against their father, fool me not so much 
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, 
And let no woman's weapon, water drops, 
Stain my man's cheek!" 

This said, he rushes care-crazed 
out into the stormy night, attended 
but by the faithful fool. 

What asad sight it must have been 
to friendly eyes, when Lear and 
Edgar met within that wretched 
hovel. Without, the elements in 
their fury rage, blinding rain in 
cataracts deluge the earth, oak- 
cleaving thunderbolts shake the 
hills and lurid lightnings flash 
athwart the dreadful scene. Within, 
in wildest insanity, rails the desti- 
tute king. Edgar, feigning mad- 
ness, addresses the foul fiend, his 
persecutor, and seeks to drive him 
away; while Lear, whose thought 
is of filial ingratitude, must needs 
deem others suffer the same sting, 
and addresses Edgar, as having 
merciless daughters. 

Gloster and Kent rescue for 
awhile the king from the howling 
tempest ; but again he is obliged to 
fly the evil designs of his daughters. 
To the camp of the French, where 
Cordelia in arms seeks to support 
her father's fallen rights, Lear is 
led. Mow shall we speak of Cor- 
delia's heavenly beauty of soul? 
"There is," says Mrs. Jameson, 

"in the beauty of Cordelia's char- 
acter an effect too sacred for words, 
and almost too deep for tears; 
within her heart is a fathomless 
well of purest affection ; but its 
waters sleep in silence and obscu- 
rity, never failing in their depths 
and never overflowing in their ful- 
ness." There are no salient points 
of character upon which the imag- 
ination can seize, no external de- 
velopment, but a calm and reserved 
love which elicits our curiosity, and 
as we distinguish the different traits 
we learn to love the very person. 

After Goneril's empty protesta- 
tion, Cordelia questions her deeds. 
"Love and be silent," is her con- 
clusion. And were not the words 
of Lear, 

What can you say to draw, 

A third more opulent than your sisters, 

enough to harrow forever the 
generous and delicate but shrink- 
ing soul of Cordelia? In the fare- 
well Cordelia takes of her sis- 
ters, we see her magnanimity, and 
in the reply to the Duke of Burgun- 
dy, her modest pride. The first 
part of the drama shows us how 
Cordelia is loved, while the latter 
exemplifies the generous outpouring 
of her heart's stifled love. The first 
display of her love we see, when 
Kent questions the gentleman how 
Cordelia received the distressing- 

Ay! sir, she took them, and read them in my pres- 
And now and then, an ample tear stole down 
Her delicate cheeks. It seemed she was a queen 
Over her passion ; who most rebel like 
Sought to king over her. 
Kent— "O! then it moved her?" 

Gent.— "Not to rage . 

Faith, once or twice, she heaved the name of father, 

Panting forth, as if it pressed her heart, 

Cried. Sisters! Sisters! Shame of Ladies! Sisters! 

What i' the storm? i' the night? 

Let pity not be believed. Then she shook 

The holy water from her heavenly eyes. 

Then away she started 

To deal with grief alone. 

Her sensibility, her filial tender- 
ness, reverence, devotion and sor- 
row are expressed, when she com- 
mits her raving father to the care 
of the physicians. Hanging over 
him as he sleeps, and contemplat- 





ing his weakened mind and health, 
she thus vents her grief : 

O! my dear father! restoration hang 

Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss 

Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters 

Have in thy reverence made. 

Had yon not been their father, these white (lakes 

Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face 

To be opposed against the warring winds? 

To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder? 

In most terrible and nimble stroke 

Of quick cross-lightning? to watch— poor perdu— 

With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog 

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 

Against my fire. 

Not for the vile temptings of am- 
bition, does she take up arms, but 
for her dear father's sake, upon 
whom center all her thoughts and 
all her fears. Her calm patience, 
fortitude and lofty spirit display 
themselves after the battle and de- 

We are not the first. 

Who with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst. 
For the oppressed King am I cast down ; 
Myself could else outfrown false fortune's frown. 

What, again, so condensed, yet, 
so ample in meaning, so quiet, so 
feminine, so dignified in the expres- 
sion, yet fraught with such bitter 
and iutense irony, as the few simple 
words: "Shall we not see these 
daughters and these sisters?" which 
Cordelia utters, when she and her 
father are conveyed to the prison. 
These are the last words of Cor- 
delia. Like the soft gleam of a dis- 
tant star, whose mellow light 
shines but at intervals, is the char- 
acter of this dutiful daughter; we 
hear her loving words but for an in- 
stant, when she disappears from 
the scene, not, however, without 
leaving a deep impression upon our 

The fatal designs of the unfaith- 
ful sisters, blended with the in- 
trigues of Edmund, succeed, alas, 
too well; Cordelia meets death, as 
the vilest of felons, at the hands of 
the hangman. When Lear enters 
with Cordelia, dead in his arms, 
compassion and awe seize on all 
our faculties; we gaze in silence, 
and tears of sympathy flow freely 
from our eyes. Lear has at last 
awakened to the inspiring affection 
of his daughter, but now it is too 
late. He sees her lifeless corse be- 

fore him, yet, his stricken mind re- 
fuses the awful thought; fancy well- 
nigh restores his care-crazed mind, 
and he recognizes his daughter's 
soft and gentle voice. All her de- 
votion, self-sacrifice and love flash 
before his vision, and the fearful 
ordeal snaps his life cords. 

Such then is the sad end of King- 
Lear and Lady Cordelia; a more 
melancholy fate, indeed, than they 
seemed to deserve. Yet, who could 
wish the aged, care-crazed king, 
once more to bow down his hoary 
head under the weight of a crown? 
What more tragic, besides, and 
more natural, withal, than that an 
aged sire should succumb to grief 
at the death of his wronged and 
faithful daughter! Again, in the 
melancholy fate of young and vir- 
tuous Cordelia herself, may we not 
behold a martyr of filial devotion, 
and admire the mysterious ways of 
a higher providence? The innocent 
and the good do not always thrive 
here below. The poetical justice of 
the play, moreover, is amply com- 
pensated by the dire and appalling 
retribution with which the justice 
of Heaven overtakes the guilty, 
and especially the ungrateful 
daughters and faithless wives. Re- 
gan, indeed, is poisoned by Goneril, 
who is detected and cast in prison, 
where shortly after, in a fit of disap- 
pointed love and rage she puts an 
end to her own life. And thus was 
literally fulfilled the prophecy con- 
tained in Cordelia's parting words: 

Time will unfold what plighted cunning hides: 
Who cover faults, at last, shame them derides. 

We do not then agree with the 
critics who consider the sad death 
of Lear and Cordelia too cruel, and 
whose remarks have exerted such 
influence, that on the English stage 
the dutiful and virtuous Cordelia 
continues victorious and happy. 
There is in this piece one passage, 
however, at which spectators may 
well be shocked, without, in our hum- 
ble opinion, incurring the censure of 
"being souls of softer mould." We 
refer to the cruel scene in which the 


Earl Of Gloster is bound to a Chair, Exoculis quae mox narret facunrlia praesens. 

j , . -, ., ., Nee pneros coram populo Medea triicidet. 

and his eyes, one after the other, are _ . . 

savagely" plucked out, Even Shake- . But ' s,nce we <l uote tbe Ars Poet " 

speare'sstaunch admirer,Coleridge, 1( ; a in modest censure ot the prince 

deems that in this instance, at of playwrights, let us cite the same 

least, the tragic element has been source in more than redeeming 

urged beyond the uttermost limit, praise: 

"What Shall I Say Of this SCeiie?" Ubi pluranitent in carmine, non ego paucis 

he asks himself. "There is my re- offendarmacmis. 

luctance, to think Shakespeare And, indeed, in the masterpieces 

wrong, and yet ." Would we be of any tongue, do literary gems 

wrong to cap the unfinished phrase sparkle with brighter, or even with 

with the lines of Horace: equal lustre than in King Lear? 

Non tamen intus rp Cra^rw! T-?liof 

Digna geri promes in scenam, multaqne tolles x • VJiMytrAji, -LviitJt. 



KINDLY cask! whose summers date, 
Like mine from Manillas' consulate, 
Whate'er thou bearest, wail or jest, 
Or sleep or wild-love in your breast, 

Full well, I know, thy hidden power 
Is worthy sooth some festal hour; 
Descend ! Corvinus wants to-day 
A mellow cup, and I obey. 

Though in Socratic thought he dwell, 
He will not slight thee, I trow well, 
And father Cato we all know, 
Oft felt from thee a warmer glow. 

A gentle torment thou dost lend, 
And sluggish minds to thee unbend; 
The sage with thee forgets his cares, 
His inmost counsels he unbares. 

To weary hearts fresh life dost bear, 
Bright hope, to souls outworn with care; 
The poor with thee will dauntless rise, 
And frowning crowns and arms despise. 

Should Venus blithe, and Bacchus hie, 
And Graces knit in loving tie, 
Then living lights will brook delay, 
Till wane the s'ars at break of day. 

J. A. McPhillips, Rhet. 



'N the afternoon of a beautiful 
summer's day, when all nature 
seemed to smile, a party of sur- 
veyors pitched their camp on 
the banks of the Potomac, in 
the northern part of Virginia. 
A more picturesque spot could not 
have been selected. It was on the 
summit of an elevated bluff, and 
afforded a magnificent view of the 
surrounding country. The cool 
summer breeze carried with it the 
sweet odor of the wild flowers, while 
the arms of a giant oak screened 
the party from the blazing sun, with 
its welcome shade. 

What a beautiful scene! Far be- 
low was the broad valley of the Po- 
tomac, extending several miles in 
length, and entirely covered with a 
green, grassy carpet. Here and there 
could be seen a bed of wild daisies 
and violets, and clumps of tall 
tulip-trees, hickory and ash, bowing 
their stately heads before the sum- 
mer wind. In the valley, rolled the 
stream of the lordly Potomac, feed- 
ing meadow and wild flower with 
its refreshing waters. In the dis- 
tance could be seen white farm 
houses glinting in the sunlight, 
herds of cattle browsing in the 
meadows, and horses romping on 
the plain. The cheery notes of the 
wood lark, the chatter of the jay, 
and the twitter of the swallow, fol- 
lowed by the soft notes of the coo- 
ing dove, could be distinctly heard. 

For many miles along the Poto- 
mac extended a bluff of about forty 
feet in height; and a beautiful crys- 
tal lake nestled at its base. 

As we follow with our eyes the 
noble river sweeping on its rapid 
course, our attention is attracted 
by the sight of a youth of barely 
eighteen summers, who had wan- 
dered from the surveyors' camp, 
and was now strolling leisurely by 
the banks of the stream. His figure 
is a striking one. He is tall, erect, 

stately. The shoulders are broad ; 
the neck round as the trunk of his 
own native pine; the head massive, 
the forehead broad ; the eyes pene- 
trating and clear; the countenance 
frank, manly ; the whole expression 
pleasing in the extreme. The limbs 
are stout, well-knit, muscular. Now 
and then, the young man pauses, 
and gazes far off on hill, and dale, 
and stream, as if to drink in the 
beauty of the scene. 

When he had proceeded some dis- 
tance from the camp, he arrived at 
a bend in the river. Here he was 
aroused by the sound of water dash- 
ing against the rocks. Headvanced 
with rapid pace in the direction 
whence the splashing noise proceed- 
ed, and soon came in sight of a 
beautiful cascade. Here, the rocks 
over which tumbled the waters, 
were steep and slippery ; and green 
moss covered them on all sides, 
while the foaming sheet fell from a 
height of thirty feet. As the crys- 
tal waters rushed on their course, 
they sparkled with a thousand ever 
changing hues. 

As the youth stood admiring the 
beautiful sight, suddenly a woman's 
scream rent the stillness of the 
summer air. Instantly he pushed 
his way through the bushes, and 
rushed to the river bank. As he 
neared the stream, a truly pitiful 
sight met hisgaze. A woman, whose 
rich garb and lofty bearing told of 
her rank, with frantic gesture, was 
pointing to the dark, seething 
waters of the Potomac, while with all 
a mother's agony she repeated the 
words " My boy, oh ! save my boy! " 
She was struggling to fling herself 
into the stream, to rescue the child 
there drowning before her eyes, but 
the strong arms of two sturdy 
woodsmen, who had run to the 
rescue prevented her. The words 
had hardly escaped the woman's 
lips, when the brave lad with one 



bound reached the edge of the river. 
He paused for a second to sight the 
drowning boy, and then plunged 
headlong into the foaming waves. 

The current was swift, and at 
every second it seemed as if the bold 
swimmer must needs perish. Three 
times he was carried under by the 
current, and three times he arose 
to the surface, amidst the joyful 
cries of those on the shore. The 
agonizing mother, with streaming 
eyes, watched every motion of the 
heroic youth, and prayed aloud that 
her child might be saved. The sturdy 
strokes of the swimmer had now 
brought him to the drowning boy, 
and none too soon. The child was 
sinking, never to rise again ; but 
with firm, yet gentle grasp, he 
seized him with one hand, and then 
struck out for the shore. A shout 
of joy rent the air from those on 
land. The child is saved ! But no ! 
as the rescuer swims to the shore, 
see! he meets a whirlpool. Fierce- 
ly he struggles to break the deadly 
circle— in vain ; he is carried be- 
neath the foaming waters. With a 
piercing cry, the mother lifted her 
eyes to heaven, wringing her hands 
in an agony of despair. But look ! 
that bright, clear, noble face ap- 
pears on the surface. With a mighty 
effort, the young hero, with his bur- 
den in his grasp, strikes out again. 
All the strength and energy in his 
control are flung into the act. 
Again, again, till the blood starts 
from his nostrils. How exhausted 
and pale he looks! Another stroke 

for life is given. Thank God! At 
last! he is successful! the pool of 
death is passed, and on he swims 
to the shore. The mother is over- 
whelmed with joy. "They are 
saved! Thank God, the3 T are 
saved \" she cries, and rushes down 
to meet them. 

Our young hero climbs the river 
bank, and the unconscious, yet liv- 
ing boy is placed in his mother's 
arms. Weeping tears of joy, she 
presses the child to her heart, and 
breathes a prayer of thanks to the 
beneficent Being, who had sent the 
young hero to the rescue. Then 
gazing lovingly, admiringly on the 
face of the sturdy swimmer: 
"Young man," she said, "you have 
saved my boy; God will reward 
you, for I cannot ; but in my pray-- 
ers, a mother's prayers, you will 
always be remembered." Here she 
stopped ; for tears of joy were 
trickling down her cheeks; then 
once more gazing on the youth, 
with almost prophetic inspiration, 
she exclaimed : "Yes; yes, in my 
soul I feel it, God will reward you; 
you will grow to a noble manhood ; 
you will be the pride and the glory 
of your fatherland." 

The heroic rescuer was no other 
than he, whom Light Horse Harry 
Lee afterwards styled: "The first 
in war, the first in peace, and the 
first in the hearts of his country- 
men"— our great, our beloved 
George Washington. 

J. J. Quill, First Com. 


ORTE tua felix, nodo cui juncta jugali, 

Siderei est Regis Filia, Sponsa, Parens; 
Et natus, nutrire tibi quem contigit, astris 
Imperat; ad nutum quem regis, Ipse regit; 
Tu faber, Ipse faber; siquidem astra coruscum 
Aedificat solium Filius iste tuus. 

J. F. Goggan, Rhet. 




HE old City Park of New Or- 
leans is a familiar spot to 
many of my readers. Of a 
summer evening, they may 
have strolled under the 
sturdy branches of its 
venerable moss-covered oaks, and 
enjoyed the refreshing breeze or 
listened to the lively carol of the 
mocker, mingling with the silvery 
voices and merry laughter of the 
children playing about on the 
grassy sward. 

But other sights and other 
sounds might have shocked his 
senses years ago. Before the war, 
indeed, this alluring spot was the 
favorite rendezvous, where even 
prominent citizens, influenced by 
the misguided principles of the 
day, were wont to meet and settle 
their private differences in "uue 
affaire d'honneur." So rife, indeed, 
had the custom grown, at one pe- 
riod, that we might well apply to 
the venerable guardians of the 
park, the words addressed, under 
similar circumstances, to the 
strands of Hoboken. "Ye tragic 
shores! crimsoned with the richest 
blood, I tremble at the crimes you 
record against us— the annual reg- 
ister of murders you keep, and 
send up to God." But thanks to a 
kind Providence, the baneful cus- 
tom has well-nigh gone out of prac- 
tice in the States. 

In Russia, France and the Ger- 
man Empire, however, and in other 
countries of Europe, duelling still 
prevails, and scarcely a day passes 
without some one falling a victim 
to a murderous weapon, in these 
absurd and criminal encounters. 
It may not prove uninteresting 
then, to cast a rapid glance upon 
the practice, from a moral stand- 

The polished Greek, we are told, 
knew nothingof duelling, whilst the 

noble Roman, who held in equal con- 
tempt, both the rash exposure of life 
and the refusal to risk it in defence 
of the Republic, would have turned 
from the custom with scorn. In 
our search, then, for its origin, we 
must turn to some other source. 

Retracing our steps along the 
stages of history, we must needs 
pass through the ages of chivalry, 
back to the forefathers of the 
knights errant, the barbarous 
hordes of the North, the Suevi and 
the Goths. One of the methods of 
settling private differences, which 
obtained amongst these tribes, 
bears a striking resemblance to the 
duelling of the present day. It 
consisted in "a fight, by private 
authority, from private motives, 
and with time and place appoint- 
ed;" a description, which com- 
prises the very elements, moralists 
of the day generally embody in 
their definitions of duelling. Thus, 
by Father Joseph Rickaby, S. J., 
iu his excellent work on Ethics, a 
duel is defined : "a meeting of two 
parties, by private agreement, to 
fight with weapons, in themselves 

From this definition, the prac- 
tice with which we are concern- 
ed, evidently differs from the 
rixa or ordinary fight, in which 
there is no previous agreement. So 
too, is it distinguished from the 
"Wager of Battle, "or even waritself, 
which proceeds under the agreement 
or sanction of public authority. 
In like manner. does our definition 
discard the "Judicial Duel," which, 
as its name indicates, bore the 
sanction of civil power, and was 
supposed to settle, by divine inter- 
vention, the suits which the human 
judge was either unable, or unwill- 
ing to decide. After flourishing in 
the ages of superstition, its fallacy 
was finally unmasked, and the cus- 



torn fell soon afterwards into dis- 
use. The meaning then, of our duel 
is now clearly defined, and we may 
proceed, at once, to review its 
moral aspect. 

Why, therefore, condemn a prac- 
tice, which has been so commonly 
held a brave deed, and a means of 
establishing one's honor? Because, 
as a practice, it is unlawful; as a 
means, absurd. 

Presuming the ordinary notions 
of law, and its various divisions 
and kinds, we have but to cast a 
glance at the codes of both the re- 
ligious and civil societies, to find 
duelling condemned in the plainest 
and strictest terms. Some 'moral 
acts, however, are unlawful, merely, 
because they are forbidden by pos- 
itive law, while others are intrinsi- 
cally wrong, intrinsice, as the scho- 
lastic term runs, even though 
positive law should enact nothing 
against them. To this second class 
of immoral deeds, belongs the duel; 
in other words, duelling is against 
the natural law, that participation 
of God's eternal law, imprinted in 
living characters on the heart of 
every rational creature. 

The light of reason, indeed, clear- 
ly dictates that he who wantonly 
and without cause exposes him- 
self to the danger of losing 
his own, and taking the life 
of a fellow being, incurs, by the 
very act, the double guilt of suicide 
and homicide. Now, this is pre- 
cisely the case of the duellist. The 
exposure of life is evident, "with 
weapons in themselves deadly," 
read our definition. The risk is, 
moreover, wanton or unjustified: 
the only adducible reason is 
the vindication of honor. Now, 
true honor is essentially con- 
nected with iuterior righteous- 
ness of soul, and wholly inde- 
pendent, therefore, from the acci- 
dental spilling of the life blood of 
t(ie calumniator, or innocent vic- 
tim. Justly then, do the laws of 
Church and State condemn a prac- 
tice which is in itself opposed to 

natural law, as containing the 
twofold malice of suicide and 
murder;a practice moreover fraught 
with the most disastrous results on 

These deplorable consequences, 
indeed, suggest a second and 
forcible argument against the 
baneful custom we deprecate. For 
whatever is opposed to the true 
ends of society is thereby illicit; 
now, once in frequent vogue, duel- 
ling will materially impede, or en- 
tirely defeat, the lofty aims of vari- 
ous human societies. Thus in 
France, during the reign of Henry 
IV, a space of only ten years, as 
many as six thousand citizens fell 
deluded victims of these "affaires 
d'honneur." How many helpless 
orphans and hapless widows, do 
these startling figures represent? 
what bright hopes blasted ! what 
cheerful homes buried in endless 
gloom ! But the deed exerts even 
a more baneful influence upon civil 

Let citizens once take upon them- 
selves the settling of private differ- 
ences; the rights of public author- 
ity are then trampled upon ; the 
laws are set at naught, and an in- 
creasing breach is opened in the 
rampart of civil protection. 

It is the little rift, within the lute, 

That bye and bye, will make the music mute, 

And ever widening, slowly silence all. 

Again, what a loss to the State 
of so many promising members, 
and prominent citizens, of lawyers 
and generals, of journalists and 
statesmen ! 

This last evil is thus touching-h- 
and eloquently deplored by Nott, 
on the occasion of the death of 
Alexander Hamilton: "How the 
mighty have fallen!— A short time 
since, and he, who is the occasion 
of our sorrow, was the ornament of 
his country. He stood on an emi- 
nence, and glory covered him. 
From that eminence he has fallen, 
suddenly, forever fallen.— Approach 
and behold, while I lift from his 
sepulchre its covering! Ye adinir- 



ers of his greatness, Ye emulous of 
his talents and fame, approach and 
behold him now! How pale, how 
silent! No martial bands admire 
the adroitness of his movements; 
no fascinated throng' weep, and 
melt, and tremble at his eloquence! 
Amazing change! this is all that 
now remains of Hamilton." 

Yet in spite of these strong rea- 
sons and powerful motives to dis- 
countenance and deprecate a prac- 
tice wrong in itself, and most bane- 
ful in its conseqences, many have 
spoken and still plead in its de- 

War is not illicit, they say; 
why should the duel be un- 
lawful? But here, our oppo- 
nents forget that war is undertaken 
by public, duelling by private au- 
thority. Duelling, however, they 
assert, once more, is a means, at 
times the only means, to vindicate 
one's honor. We have shown 
above the falsity of this assump- 
tion. Now, we may be permitted an 
apt citation in further proof of ab- 
surdity. "As a vindication of per- 
sonal character," says the orator 
quoted above, ''duelling is absurd, 
even beyond madness. One man 
of honor, by some inadvertence, or 
perhaps with design, wounds the 
sensibility of another man of honor. 
In perfect character, the injured 
gentleman resents it. He challenges 
the offender. The time is fixed; the 
place agreed upon. The circum- 
stances, with an air of solemn 
mania, are arranged; and the prin- 
cipals with their seconds and sur- 

geons retire under thecoverof some 
solitary hill, or upon the margin of 
some unfrequented beach, to settle 
this important question of honor, 
by stabbing or shootingeach other. 
One or both of the parties fall in 
this gentlemanlike contest. And 
what does this prove? It proves 
that one or the other, or both of 
them, as the case may be, are 
marksmen. But it affords no evi- 
dence that either of them possesses 
honor, probity or talents." 

But even were duelling an apt 
means of saving our honor, a boon 
dearer than life, still it might not 
be employed, for the simple reason 
that "the end never justifies the 

Duelling, they finally urge, is an 
act of bravery or courage. But we 
answer: does bravery or courage 
constitute the morality of our ac- 
tions? Most frequently, however, 
the accepting of a challenge is but 
an act of cowardice, a base yield- 
ing to human respect. How far 
braver is the moral hero, who fear- 
lessly follows the dictates of his 
conscience and judgment, amidst 
the taunts and reproaches of the 
world, heedless of the "hand of 
scorn." Was the brave general of 
the late war, who refused the chal- 
lenge, a coward, when gallantly 
leading his victorious troops, on 
the hills of Vicksburg, he fell from 
his horse mortally wounded, and 
shed the last drops of his blood, for 
the cause he espoused? 

W. Cowley, Phil. 



wonder whether he can 
read?" whispered to her- 
self a little girl, as she folded 
a letter and hid it in the 
bosom of her dress. She was 
seated at a poor table, in 

the middle of a gloomy apartment, 

in the top story of a tenement 
house, in the city of Paris. Her 
deep blue eyes and her delicate fea- 
tures framed with a profusion of 
golden curls plainly indicated that 
poverty and want had brought her 
to that wretched home. Of this 



we are still more convinced, when 
we follow her to the corner of the 
bare, but neatly kept room. 

There, upon a bed of suffering, 
lies a young woman of some thirty- 
five summers. Yet how wan her 
cheeks, how sunken her eyes! The 
hand of care and sorrow, much 
more than that of time, have done 
the work. "Dear mamma," said 
the little girl, as she lovingly threw 
her arms around her mother's neck; 
"Let me go and try to beg once 
more; then too, I wish to go to 
Notre Dame and pray to St. 
Joseph." Then kissing her mother, 
she was soon skipping down stairs, 
leaving the patient alone with her 
sufferings, alone with her anxious 
thoughts about the future. 

"Who will look after my darling," 
she sadly mused, "when I shall be 
no more?" Then she thought of 
Him who clothes the lily of the 
field ; and the dark cloud of care 
which brooded over her counten- 
ance, melted into a sweet smile -of 

Meanwhile, after a vain quest for 
alms, the little daughter guided 
her steps to the Cathedral of Notre 
Dame. On entering, she turned in- 
to St. Joseph's chapel. Jt was 
silent; no one was present. Timid- 
ly walking up to the altar, the lit- 
tle girl drew the letter from her 
bosom, and standing on tiptoe, she 
placed it in front of the tabernacle, 
and withdrew. On reaching the 
nave, she entered one of the first 
pews, knelt down, and fervently en- 
treated St. Joseph not to forsake 
her dear mother. Soon after, she 
was on her way to her lonely home, 
rejoicing the while that no one had 
seen her deliver the letter, which she 
felt sure would not fail to reach its 
destination. A rich lady, however, 
who was praying in the cathedral 
had noticed the little girl as she 

timidly stepped out of St. Joseph's 
chapel. She felt prompted to visit 
the chapel and found the letter ad- 
dressed to St. Joseph. "St. Joseph," 
she said, "permit me to read this 
letter. If any poor stand in need 
of help, I will go and relieve them 
in your name." 

Thereupon she unsealed the let- 
ter, and read as follows : 

Paris, France, Mar. 19, 1855. 

Dear St. Joseph : 

I want to ask you to cure my 
mother who is very sick, and if you 
do, I will love you ever so much. 
My name is Antoinette. I am ten 
years. old, and live on the fifth floor 
of No. 169, Boulevard Chateaubri- 
and, Paris. 

P. S.— If my mother gets well, I 
will love you forever. 


"God bless the dear little soul," 
exclaimed the rich lady, "St. Joseph 
will answer your letter." 

So saying, she hastened from the 
chapel, and stepped into her car- 
riage which was waiting outside, 
and soon reached 169 Boulevard 
Chateaubriand. She found her way 
to the fifth story and rapped at the 
door of the room occupied by An- 
toinette and hersick mother. Tears 
fell from her eyes, as she gazed up- 
on the poverty of the apartment, 
and discovered the sad condition 
of its inmates. She at once sum- 
moned her own physician to attend 
the sick woman, saw all their wants 
supplied, and continued to care for 
them with tender solicitude. The 
mother was soon herself again. As 
for Antoinette, she no longer 
doubted whether St. Joseph could 
read, but only thought of keeping 
her promise and "loving him ever 
so much." 

T. J. Touart, Third Gram. 





HY sturdy noble race among, 

Fair oak, I love thee best of all; 

Not for thy spreading arms so strong, 

Not for thy stately form so tall; 

Nor for the sweet and merry thrill, 

The mocker wakes within thy boughs; 
Nor for the vying of the rill 

That 'neath in wanton laughter flows. 

No ! higher, dearer far, the charms, that lend 

Thee worth; — to me, indeed, thou art 
An image meet of my true friend, 

My loved, my loving Sacred Heart. 

When summer's sunshine days are gone, 

And skies are hid 'neath winter's pall; 
When mockers seek a kinder sun 

And rills are hushed with leaves of fall; 

Thy peers, then glory-stripped, mourn sad, 

Powerless to drive the gloom away. 
But thou alone, e'er gaily clad, 

Dost cheer me on till brighter day. 

E'en so, when joy's bright days are sped, 

And sorrow frowns from leaden skies, 
When soothing lips are hushed or dead, 

And cheering smiles are changed to sighs; 

Then false friends fall, and leave a blight # 

That human power will striveln vain 
To cheer. — One Heart alone hath might 

To heal, hath love to soothe the pain. 

That Heart, whose love, e'er burning strong 

All grief allays, thou dost recall. — 
Ah ! this is why thy race among, 

Fair oak, I love thee best of all. 

J. Irving. 




is a soft autumnal evening, 
and three travellers, weary 
with climbing the southern 
slopes of the Apennines, have 
just reached a small village 
inn, kept by an honest woman, 
a poor widow. They sit themselves 
at a table under an arbor to enjoy 
the smiling, undulating scene be- 
fore them, but much more to drown 
their fatigue in a flagon of wine. 

From their dress, we discover 
that we are in the fourteenth cen- 
tury, while the large medal worn in 
the hat after the fashion of those 
days, betray the parties to belong 
to a free band of marauders. One 
of the trio is a striking figure. Low 
in stature, he has piercing, black 
eyes, with a loud, ringing voice, 
while the short pointed beard 
stamps him for a Venetian. When 
rising to proceed on their journey, 
the latter thus addressed the 
hostess: "Generous lady, may we 
not leave this bag of gold in safe- 
keeping under your roof for a few 

"You may," she answered cheer- 
fully, " but remember we use only a 
latch. There are no bars nor bolts 
in our village." 

"Your word, madam, will be our 

"Besides," put in one of the other 
marauders, "you- may oblige us 
with an acknowledgment." 

Thereupon, a bond was duly 
drawn and signed, in the presence 
of the village physician who had 
just dropped in to learn the news 
of the day. 

When applied for, the gold, which, 
by the way, had been stolen from a 
rich old miser, was, according to 
the bond, not to be delivered to one 
alone, or even to two, but only to 
the three. 

Hardly had they left, when the 
Venetian returned, and expressed a 
desire to put his seal on the bag, 
as his companions had done. The 
widow had just handed him the 
bag when she was summoned away 

to attend a new guest. When she 
returned, alas! both Venetian and 
bag were gone. 

"Miserable woman that I am!" 
she cried aloud, " what will become 
of me and my daughter ! " 

Two days passed by without 
tidings of the gold or thief. On the 
morning of the third, the other two 
marauders returned for the gold, 
and missing it, at once began a 
lawsuit against the unfortunate 
widow. In her distress, the poor 
woman sent her daughter to a 
neighboring town to seek the as- 
sistance of a famous lawyer, but to 
no avail. Further at tern ps to secure 
an advocate proved equally vain. 

The dreaded day of trial was fast 
approaching. Almost driven to 
despair, the mother bethought her- 
self of a young friend, a former 
youth of the village, who had been 
studying law, and was just a few- 
days before admitted to the Bar. 

"I am young and without expe- 
rience," replied the youth, "but, 
good lady, I shall do my utmost 
to serve you and your daughter." 

The day arrives; the court is as- 
sembled, the claims stated, the 
proofs given. And now a defence 
is called for; but no response. The 
prevailing silence is only broken by 
the sobs of the mother and child, 
who are wringing their hands in de- 
spair. The judges are preparing to 
give their decision. But see! A 
young man is hurriedly making his 
way to the front, and standing be- 
fore the bench, thus addressed the 
judges: "Most noble Signors, allow 
me to speak but one word in de- 
fence. Much has been said about 
the sacredness of obligations and 
the corresponding exactness in 
their fulfilment. And I am here 
with only one request, the fulfil- 
ment of the bond. 

Does not the bond say distinctly 
that the gold is not to be delivered 
to one, not to two, but only to the 
three? Let, then, the three come 
forward, and claim the bag!" 
F. L. Stutzer. Second Com. 



ALVE, quam pauci cecinere vates, 
Insulis, rivis lacubusque mille, 
Mille formosis sinibus decora, 

Florida tellus! 

Qui tuas oras reperit Hems 
Classe navarchus, celebrante plebe, 
Floridum Pascha vocitavit inde 

Nomine ducto. 

Balneum quamvis renovans juventam 
Decipit ducem, dea Chloris alma, 
Dona pratorum variata mire 

Obvia defert. 

Arva nee desunt roseo cruore 
Martyrum largo madidata. Debet 
Hoc satu nasci copiosa tandem 

Messis abundans. 

Est locus gratus, locus est labori 
Arduo saltern — dabitur merenti 
Palma, quod certo generat ad annum 

Florida palmas. 
C. W. 


HROUDED in gloom is the cypress-crowned Queen of the South, 
as the deadly 
Breath of the plague, like the hot stifling wind of the African 
sand wastes, 

Ruthlessly passes, an Angel of death, o'er its once merry homesteads; 
Hushed is the gay carol now, and hushed is the song of the Creole. 
Silent the once merry halls are, silent the gay sprightly music. 
Roiling, still rolling along in its bed by the now lonely levee, 
Heedless of sorrow and woe, on rushes the great Mississippi. 
Dismal the groans of the dying are heard, where once sounded the laughter 
Rippling and gay, and the jargoning prattle of innocent children. 
Daily freighted with dead, still rumbles the hearse o'er the streetway. 
Dismal the sound of its wheels! O how ghastly the sight of its burden; 
Rolling, still rolling along in its bed, by the now lonely levee, 
Heedless of sorrow and woe, on rushes the great Mississippi. 
Friendship no longer will lend a strong hand to a woe-stricken neighbor; 
Loosened the ties are of love, and all loosened the bonds of affection. 

Who will now comfort the people, and solace the Christian's last moments? 
Who will now speak to the dying the comforting words of salvation? 
Fearless of danger, not daunted by plague, yea by labor undaunted, 

Forth goes Ignatius' brave son, forth goes the good Father , 

Bringing to rich and to poor, in this lone and sad hour of bereavement, 
Words to rejoice their sad hearts, and prepare them for God's dread tribunal 
Valiant the good Father is, and he fears not the breath pestilential. 
Bears he a charm on his person, or bears he some talisman magic, 
Thus to encounter unharmed all these toils and these dangers appalling? — 
None does the good soldier bear, but strong in his heart, in his bosom 
Bears he the love of his God — bears he the love of his Master. 
"Truly," the world said, "O truly, he is a stout soldier — a hero." 

B. Farrell. 





By the Students of St. Joseph's College, 
Spring Hill, Mobile, Ala. 

Price 25 cents; by mail 30 cents. 
Address all Communications to 

The College Album, 
Spring Hill, 

Near Mobile, Ala. 

George G. Stafford, '96. 
Thomas Goggan, '97. 

James H. Glennon, '97. 

Francis A. Lambert, '97. 
John Mock, '97. 
Joseph A. McPhillips, '97 { Business 
James H. Glennon, '97. j" Managers. 
Stanton A. Tiernan, '99 

Sporting Editor. 

New Series. May, '96. Yol. II. Nob. 1 S 2 

" What a strange name for a col- 
lege magazine," some one remarked 
concerning the Spring Hill Album. 
The word "Album" indeed, is gen- 
erally used to denote a book, where- 
in autographs, memorial lines or 
choice pieces are inserted. From 
this last meaning our paper derives 
its title. The present number, in 
fact, like its predecessors, is only a 
selection from the best class themes 
and papers read at our various lit- 
erary entertainments. Whether we 
have been happy in the choice, our 
kind readers must determine for 
themselves. Should their favorable 
criticism, however, and word of en- 
couragement reach us, we will be 
animated to carry out in future, 
what we had prepared to do even 
this year, but for some unforeseen 
obstacles, to appear, we mean, 
twice a year, and greet our many 
friends at Christmas and Easter. 

The "Staff of Editors," and more 
numerous "College Notes" are new 
features which will, we hope, both 
win favor for our paper and ensure 
its future success. 

The Editors. 



far, these have been quite va- 
ried and interesting. The ex- 
hibition given by the Rheto- 
ricians took place at the end 
of November. We quote from 
the "Mobile Register:" 

When all had assembled in the spaci- 
ous hall, the college orchestra, under the 
able direction of Professor A. J. Staub, 
discoursed soul-stirring music. As the 
lingering notes of the overture died 
away, the curtain rose and the members 
of the rhetoric class were greeted by 
great applause from the audience. Mr. 
A. Lambert began the exercises of the 
afternoon by reading a well-written es- 
say upon "Eloquence." The subject was 
treated in a scholarly manner. His 
views on ancient and modern oratory 
were original and true ; the address of 
aged Priam to swift-footed Achilles, 
simple and pathetic. 

Mr. Thomas Goggan was the next on 
the programme. His essay, a beautiful 
panegyric of America's great statesman 
and orator, Daniel Webster, was couched 
in such appropriate language and deliv- 
ered with such feeling as to win the at- 
tention and elicit the applause of the 
audience. The extract from "Union and 
Liberty" was well interpreted and grace- 
fully delivered. 

The mental and physical qualities 
necessary in every "true orator" were 
then brought forward by Mr. John Mock, 
in his excellent essay. That he fully 
understood the subject was evinced by 
the masterly way in which he treated 
every detail and by the hearty applause 
he received at the end of his reading. 

By contrasts and comparisons the 
"Sham Orator" was next defined by Mr. 
Glennon. The examples in point so 
forcibly illustrated the sham orator and 
his peculiarities as to provoke merriment 
and win well-deserved praise. 

Mr. Braud then read an interesting 
composition on the "Life of St. John 
Chrysostom," the golden-mouthed orator. 
The fluency of the style and felicity of 
the diction were fully appreciated and 
the gentleman received his due amount 
of plaudits. 

But, perhaps, the crowning feature of 
the afternoon's entertainment was Mr. 
Alvin Hebert's paper on "Chrysostom 
and Eutropius." He showed in excellent 
language the truth of that oft-repeated 
sentence of Scripture "Vanity of vani- 
ties, and all is vanity." The gentleman 
delivered in Latin the abrupt exordium 
of the well-known homily in defence 



of Eutropius. The beautiful words of 
Chrysostom, clothed in the language of 
Cicero, fell from the lips of the gentle- 
man in a shower of stirring eloquence. 

The homily itself — that masterpiece of 
sacred eloquence — was then fully ana- 
lyzed by Mr. LeBlanc. The various 
topics, the bold figures of rhetoric by 
which the gol den-mouthed orator endeav- 
ored to quell the fury of his auditory 
and to move his hearers to pity and com- 
passion, were deeply felt and vividly 
presented to the audience by the young 

The entertainment was brought to a 
close by Mr. Albert Grace. His eulogy 
on John C. Calhoun, read with a clear 
voice and distinct articulation, is worthy 
of all praise. The noble character of the 
great jurist and warm-hearted patriot 
was proposed as a model to be imitated 
and followed by every true American. 

The Poets had their turn at the 
end of February. Thus again spoke 
the journal referred to above: 

The subject chosen was "The Second 
Book of the iEneid." This portion of 
Virgil's great epic relates to the fall of 
Troy; it affords a wide field for narra- 
tive, descriptive and elocutionary pow- 
ers. The eight students on whom the 
honor of representing their respective 
classes had been conferred acquitted 
themselves in a scholarly way of the 
task imposed, 

Mr. C. LeBaron Taylor, of Mobile, 
read a thoughtful and interesting paper 
on "Virgil as a Story Teller." The de- 
livery was marked by ease and natural- 
ness, while the style was simple, manly, 

Mr. R. Garnett, of St. Augustine, Fla., 
told the sad tale of "The Fall of Troy;" 
his narration was graphic, his pictures 
well drawn, his style animated, the de- 
livery was earnest and stirring. 

It fell to the lot of Mr. O. Coignet, of 
Lafourche, La., to tell of the fearful 
death of Laocoon. This passage of the 
^Eneid is well-known to all classical 
scholars. The metrical translation read 
by Mr. Coignet was a powerful one, 
while the sturdy delivery drove the tale 
right home to the audience. 

Mr. James Quill, of Mobile, gave the 
"Dream of ^Eneas." This thrilling pas- 
sage found in him a worthy interpreter. 
Mr. Quill is an elocutionist of great tal- 
ent; his voice is clear, his articulation 
faultless, his gestures natural and grace- 
ful, his tones sympathetic, his whole 
manner pleasing in the extreme. 

Mr. J. McCormick, of San Antonio,fol- 
lowed. He gave a literary analysis of the 
"Dream," just mentioned. This gentle- 
man's earnestness, vigor and fire riveted 

the attention, and his insight into the 
literary beauties of the passage under re- 
view elicited merited praise. 

After this Mr. E. Colgin, of New Iberia, 
La., told the story of the sad death of 
old Priam, Troy's once mighty king. He 
spoke in Latin. The appreciative feel- 
ing and vigorous manner in which he 
performed his task showed that the 
speaker was at home with the language 
of the great Mantuan bard. 

Mr. Morphy, of the City of Mexico, fol- 
lowed. Anglo-Saxon is not this young 
gentleman's native tongue, yet in his 
narration, "TheLastof theDardanidae," 
he showed a rare mastery over its most 
difficult twists and turns. The compo- 
sition was vivid, forcible, energetic ; the 
delivery warm, earnest, feeling. 

Mr. E. Braun, of Mobile, concluded 
this most interesting class entertain- 
ment by pointing out the "Lesson" de- 
rived from the sad tale of the ruin of 
mighty Troy— a lesson which may be 
summed up in the words of Shakespeare: 

"Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; 
And he but naked, though locked up in steel. 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted." 

Mr. E. Braun is a pleasing speaker, 
free from mannerisms, with no small 
amount of energy and fire. 

At intervals during the seance the or- 
chestra, under the able direction of Pro- 
fessor Staub, and the senior and junior 
cornet bands, rendered the choicest 
pieces from their repertoire. A beauti- 
ful trio consisting of piano, French horn 
and flute, with Professor Staub, Messrs. 
A. Grace and H. J. Quill at the respec- 
tive instruments, won well-merited 
praise. We regret to have to say that 
Professor Bloch. of whose sickness we 
have heard with sorrow, was not present 
as usual, to aid by his taste and skill in 
the success of our musical performers. 

On the first of April we had the 
First Grammarians. Let us ao-ain 
listen to our good Mobile friend: 

The subject chosen by the First Gram- 
mar Class for its entertainment given 
last Wednesday at Spring Hill College 
was the "Anabasis" of Xenophon. 

As many will recall to mind, this is an 
account of the retreat of the Ten Thou- 
sand, who, having been mustered by 
Cyrus the Younger to dispossess his 
brother Artaxerxes, then seated on the 
throne of Persia, were finally defeated 
in the battle of Cunaxa. Forced to re- 
turn to their homes, they had to traverse 
1,500 miles of unknown country, where 
every foot of ground was disputed by 
hostile inhabitants. But undaunted 
courage and valor triumphed over all 
these difficulties, and, with Xenophon 
at their head this intrepid band finally 



reached the Euxine or Black sea, whence 
they embarked for Greece. 

As is seen by this short summary, it 
was an achievement the story of which, 
if presented in a graphic manner, could 
hardly fail to be interesting. And judg- 
ing from the remarks of the audience 
(who are never too lenient in their criti- 
cisms), its recital was a success. 

Stanton A. Tiernan read the introduc- 
tory essay, in which he reviewed the 
"Anabasis" from a literary and historical 
standpoint. Master Tiernan has a clear, 
ringing voice. He is remarkably distinct 
in his articulation ; his style is neat, 
easy and natural. The two leading char- 
acters of the book were then well criti- 
cised in excellent papers, read respect- 
ively by C. Kearns and R. Sere. To in- 
teresting biographical details they added 
accurate bits of historical criticism. 

Then followed a few remarks on the 
Advance, which, by the aid of a colored 
map skilfully drawn for the occasion, 
giving the exact route taken, Master 
Forest Braud rendered very interesting. 

G. Hamel gave an account of the Bat- 
tle, which was the turning point of the 
expedition. This proved a graphic and 
spirited piece. 

The Retreat itself was then described 
in a well-written and animated essay by 
H. Lyons. 

A few specimens of oratory from the 
"Anabasis" closed the entertainment. 
H. Sarpy delivered with great earnest- 
ness and grace a Latin version of the 
speech of Ciearchus to his soldiers in 
mutiny, and R. D'Aquin the English 
version of Xenophon's address to the 
Greek officers. This last was delivered 
in a manner worthy of such an eloquent 
discourse and justly deserved the ap- 
plause it won. 

At the conclusion of the seance, the 
reverend president congratulated the 
First Grammar Class. Their entertain- 
ment, he said, had been one of the best 
of the present year. 

Our youthful friends of Second 
Grammar will soon appear. We 
understand there is to be quite a 
polyglot affair. We feel confident 
that the reputation of that hard- 
working class will be well kept up. 

On "Mardi Gras" the Senior 
Academy gave us a "Merry Minstrel 
Show/' The Introductory March 
given by the whole troop was exe- 
cuted with great "ensemble" fire 
and spirit. H. Quill's little bit of 
dancing and J. McPhillips' songs 
and banjo accompaniments were 
welcome features. 

At the Semi-Annual the Junior 
Academy attempted no easy task; 
yet in the opinion of competent 
critics the three-act tragedy "Con- 
nor O'Nial" was rendered in a most 
pathetic and touching manner. It 
was pronounced a decided success. 

The Senior Elocution Class is pre- 
paring a grand entertainment. 


The College team made the mis- 
take last fall of playing several 
games before being fully organized. 
The first and second of these games 
against the Mobiles were lost by a 
score of 6-16, and 4-12, respect- 

A third game, however, resulted 
in a victory for the College, the 
score being 13-9. Batteries for the 
College : Hamel and Scott ; for the 
visitors: Kenny and Dure. O. 
Braud, our first baseman, batted 
as if he had taken to heart the say- 
ing "A stitch in time, saves nine; " 
i.e.: "A hit in time oft saves a 

On April 12, the College scored 
two victories; one on the Senior dia- 
mond, the other on the Juniors' 
grounds. On the Seniors' side the 
game was a one-sided affair; the 
score being 31-1, against the vis- 
itors, a city team. The score re- 
minds us of base ball in its infancy. 
The features of the game were J. 
Goggan's batting, W. Morvant's sen 
sational catch in right and G. Ham- 
el's twirling— all for the College. 

The Juniors witnessed a more 
even contest on their "plain." 
The "Victors" of Mobile were 
downed by our lads by a score of 
10-5. Batteries for visitors: Low- 
enstein and Meyer; for Juniors: 
Daigle and Zieman and Freeman. 
The feature of the game was a triple 
play by the College boys. There 
were runners on first and second. 
On what seemed a safe hit to cen- 



tre they led off, but C. Savoie 
caught the ball, threw to second 
whence the sphere whizzed to first, 
and the "Victors" looked aston- 

The S. H. C's are now fully or- 
ganized. There is certainly good 
material. J. Goggan's and 0. 
Braud's work with the stick, E. Rod- 
rigue's fine base-running and G. 
Hamel's "south paw" should make 
things lively for visitors. The 
throwing to bases needs to be at- 
tended to; it is not steady enough. 

We are sorry to hear that the 
"Dixies" are no more. "Fuimus 
Troes." Everybody felt proud of 
them; there was quite a snap in 
their playing. What's the matter, 
gentlemen? Too much of the "Ego 
Dixi," perhaps. 

Another combination has come 
to the front, the "Crescents." They 
are winning their name, for they are 
steadily climbing upwards. Then 
they have Wilson's slides! and what 
slides ! They are an inspiration— 
a base ball tonic ! 

The two tennis courts are well 
patronized by the Seniors. The 
Juniors' court disappeared once or 
twice after the rains. "Lost in the 
flood." One thoughtful wight sug- 
gested buying an anchor and tying 
it down for good. 

The warm winter permitted but 
little football. The tennis courts 
and the hand-ball alleys took its 
place. In the hand-ball tournament 
between the classes, the philoso- 
phers did not lose a single game. 

The Juniors have an excellent 
first nine. P. Zieman's control of 
the ball and his alertness on the 
pick-up are remarkable. Play to- 
gether, boys, and watch your base- 
running. "Geeney," the shortest 
way from first to second is to run. 

The 'Bigbees have had very hard 
times lately, yet no one can deny 
that there is base-ball stuff in them. 

H. Sarpy behind the bat, and C. Sa- 
voie in centre do yeomen's work. 
'Bigbees, a word of advice: Don't 
fall to pieces if the first innings go 
against you; learn "uphill" work. 

The Junior Third Nine will be able 
to play ball after a little time— and 
a good deal of practice. "Johnny" 
does look like an undertaker 
in his black suit ; but how is he to 
be blamed ? The thing is made that 

The bicycle track has been well 
patronized. The "miseries" especi- 
ally are very enthusiastic. No won- 
der ; for as has been remarked by 
one of their representatives "they 
have more bicycles, though the Se- 
niors have more wheels." Lestang, 
that was a wise remark ! Many of 
the small boys ride remarkably 
well. Chris. Jordy is evidently a 
speed-maker. Albert, you can't 
beat your brother Christopher! 
Andrew Lelong thinks that it is his 
big black sweater that makes his 
wheel go round ! 

The first of November was Field 
Day. The sports were many and 
varied. In the Senior Division. R. 
Wilson's running broad jump, E. 
Rodrigue's 125 yard dash and G. 
Drouin's putting with the 16 lb. 
shot were good records. With the 
Juniors, H. Daigle's running and 
jumping were excellent. The stone- 
race was a novel feature. 

Our "Mardi-Gras" procession 
proved a great success. The or- 
ganizer, managers and costumers 
are to be congratulated. Our 
"Boeuf Gras" alias "Jerry" behaved 
with the gravity of an Egyptian 
Apis. W. Morvant, we feel con- 
vinced, will not venture to lampoon 
the "miseries" again ! John Bo- 
agni, is it not nice pulling a float 
up the bicycle track ! 


Inter-class contests have been 
frequent this year, some of them 



close and exciting. They have pro- 
duced good fruit: steadier appli- 
cation and a spirit of honorable 
rivalry. We mention a few. 

On October 18, a Latin Theme 
contest between the First and Sec- 
ond Grammar Classes. A glowing 
account hereof is given in the pre- 
ceding pages. The First Gram- 
marians won. 

On November 5, a "Spelling Bee" 
between Third Grammar and Sec- 
ond Commercial. F. Zieman of Sec- 
ond Commercial carries off the 

On November 15, a Latin Theme 
Contest between the Poets and the 
First Grammarians still flushed 
with the excitement of their late 
victory. The Poets run off with the 

On November 25th, Algebra con- 
test. Fifty-eight boys, comprising 
the members of Poetry, First Com- 
mercial and Algebra Sections A 
and B, struggle for the champion- 
ship. A lively affair, indeed. The 
following averages will tell the re- 
sult: Poetry, 86; First Com., 73; 
Section A, 60; Section B, 72. 

On December 16th, Algebra Sec- 
tions A and B fight it out again 
among themselves. Sec. B wins. 

T. Touart of Third Grammar a 
few days after, wins the Spelling 
medal in a contest open to the 
classes from Second Grammar 

The following is an account of 
the Elocution contest of Dec. 22: 

After the Junior Band, with a skill rare- 
ly found in such youthful amateurs, had 
played the overture, "Silver King," 
the curtain rose and Mr. Geo. Drouin 
was the first to appear on the stage. 
"Spartacus to the Gladiators" was his 
theme. His rendition of this difficult 
piece was sturdy, vigorous and telling. 
His articulation and distinctness were 
remarkable. This latter praise may be 
given to all who followed. Mr. J. T. San- 
ford, in rendering a thrilling tale, dis- 

played rare elocutionary power. Mr. 
Octave Coignet, in "Catiline's Defiance," 
had the ring of passion, hatred and scorn 
of the great conspirator so cruelly lashed 
by Cicero's eloquent tongue. Next, Mr. 
James J. Quill advanced upon the stage. 
To "The Conquered Banner" he spoke, 
and with all his heart. 

"Furl that banner, furl it sadly! 
Once ten thousand hailed it gladly!" 

As he spoke these words, a wave of gen- 
uine emotion swept over the audience, 
and they felt that though drooping and 
conquered that banner would bring him 
victory. As the event told them, they 
were not deceived. Mr. Jas. Quill's elo- 
cution is natural, graceful and full of 
genuine pathos. As the young speaker, 
with eloquence born of real emotion, re- 
hearsed the glories and sorrows of that 
"furled flag" there was a silent tear quiv- 
ering in many an eye. It was no easy 
task to keep up the fight after the ap- 
pearance of such a champion ; yet Mr. 
Horace Lange, in that beautiful apostro- 
phe, "Tell Among the Mountains," with 
a power of interpretation seldom found 
in one so young, addressed the snow-clad 
Alpine peaks in feeling tones well re- 
calling the joy and gladness of the re- 
turning exile. Mr. James Glennon told 
of the sad and lonely "Death of Benedict 
Arnold" with thrilling effect. His de- 
livery is marked by ease, modulation of 
tone and forcible conception. His piece 
was a difficult one, yet he grappled with 
it with the skill of a master. Mr. Rich- 
ard D'Aquin, who at last year's com- 
mencement so ably filled the title role in 
Talfourd's "Ion," gave the story of "Ber- 
nardo del Carpio." Mr. D'Aquin posses- 
ses real tragic power, blended with emo- 
tion, strength and pathos. To Mr. 
D'Aquin's "Bernardo" succeeded Mr. G. 
Stafford's "Curse of Regulus." Mr. Staf- 
ford is gifted with an imposing figure 
well suited to a personator of the majes- 
tic Roman. As with a gesture of proud 
disdain he raised his hand over the 
doomed temples and towers of Carthage, 
and with all a hero's scorn pronounced 
the awful curse, he was greeted with 
loud applause. The delivery was natural, 
intense and earnest. 

Thus ended this interesting entertain- 
ment. At intervals the College Glee 
Club and Orchestra delivered the choic- 
est pieces in their repertoire, while the 
Senior Band discoursed sweetest music 
with faultless technique. The decision 
of the five judges selected from the fac- 
ulty awarded the prize, as was hinted, 
to Mr. Jas J. Quill, with Messrs. Jas. 
Glennon, R. D'Aquin and G. Stafford 
closely following. 

First and Second Commercial, on 
Feb. 21, have a contest in "English 





Narration." First Commercial 
comes out ahead. 

P. Prejean of Second Grammar, 
on March 24th, downs all oppo- 
nents of the Junior Division in a 
"free to all" Spelling Bee. 


Spring Hill has ever been proud of its 
Bands and Orchestra. The Senior Band 
plays "con amore," indeed. The Orches- 
tra keeps up its old-time standard; the 
Junior Band never fails to "bring down 
the house." 

A few weeks ago R. F. Cummings, a 
graduate of Holy Cross College, Worces- 
ter, Mass., paid us a flying visit. He ex- 
pressed unstinted admiration at the 
beauty of our grounds and our mild cli- 

By the way, did our poetical friends 
notice the stately oak near the Sodality 
Chapel, with the lovely wisteria clinging 
around it with its purple tinted blossoms? 
And the white and red azaleas, and the 
jessamine, and the bursting, glossy 
leaves. How good God has been to our 

The Annual Retreat was given after 
the Christmas holidays by F. McKiniry. 
It was relished by all, and great earn- 
estness, attention and respect were 

On February 3, Fr. Bertels, our vice- 
president, pronounced his last solemn 
vows. He was heartily congratulated 
by the boys ; in return he gave us a half 
day. Will any other Father take his 
last vows soon? 

During the vacations occurred the sad 
death of Philip Hanlon, a B. S. of '95. 
Professors and students alike mourn his 
untimely death, for he was one of those 
who have the happy gift of endearing 
themselves to all. He was ever pious, 
gentlemanly and honorable. R. I. P. 

On December 8th, Our Queen and 
Mother was not forgotten. Her statue 
was illuminated, and as the shades of 
evening were gathering round, we assem- 
bled at her shrine to sing the anthem 
"Immaculate, Immaculate." 

At the semi-annual examinations 
David Duchamp, of Rhetoric Class, 

greatly distinguished himself; he had 
a clear, round hundred all along the 

The Senior and Junior Libraries have 
been restocked with books. Yes, "Lorna 
Doone" is a very interesting story. The 
new cases of the Seniors and the Picture 
Gallery of the Junior's are noteworthy 

Both Literary Academies are doing 
well. We think that the Rhetoricians 
will remember Poet J. McCormick's 
"fourteen, yes fourteen reasons, sir!" 

The boys who remained at the College 
for the holidays enjoyed themselves on 
Christmas night. The "fllibusteros" 
ruled supreme. 

Of our alumni, M. Mahorner, '93, and 
Jno. Glennon, '95, we are glad to learn 
that they are upholding the reputation 
of old Spring Hill in the law department 
at Harvard University. Ed. Trahan on 
the other hand is also doing honor to his 
"Alma Mater" for he is leading his class 
in the Medical School, Tulane University. 
N. O. 

The League of the Apostleship of 
Study has many members on the roll. 
The decorations are regularly given. The 
League has done good work, and we hope 
to see it steadily increase and flourish. 

Bathing Season at hand! Now, boys, is 
the time for steady work over lessons 
and exercises — otherwise the mourner's 
bench awaits you ! 

During the past two weeks, Pascal 
used up two bottles of "Carter's Best 
Ink" and foolscap paper galore. What 
is the matter with Pascal? Why, Pas- 
cal wants one of those gold pens on 
May 6th. 


Andre, my son, there is no remedy for 
home-sickness, I am afraid. 
Yes, dere is, Fader. 
What is it? 
Togo home! 

Teacher— Now, Albert, active and pas- 
sive voices! let us see. The pitcher 
pitches the ball. What is "pitches"? 

Alb.— I guess, Father, it's active. 

Teacher— Suppose now, "I am hit" 
by the ball. What then? 

Alb.— (triumphantly). Take your base.